


A Memory of Shadow

by Insidious1604



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Character Study, Coming of Age, Dramatic Irony, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Friendship/Love, Good Tom Riddle, Good Voldemort, Growing Up, Gryffindor Harry Potter, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Horcrux Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mentor Voldemort, No Bashing, Not So Evil Voldemort, Oblivious Harry, Pining, Plot, Sane Voldemort, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smart Harry Potter, Wandless Magic, but only because of Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insidious1604/pseuds/Insidious1604
Summary: '...The shadows had been there so long, they seemed to form patterns on his eyelids. The swirled and spun until Harry was dizzy with it, and he could not remember his own name...'The summer after his first year, Harry begins to have strange dreams of a terrible darkness. He is reliving the experiences of the horcrux trapped inside of him - and then he saves it, and it becomes his friend.





	1. Shadows

 

**Chapter 1**

  _There was a certain gloom to the darkness now. He had been in there long enough that he could just make out his legs, laid out before him, and when Harry brought his hand to his face, he could see its vague outline. Certainly he could not see much else. He was enshrouded by shadow, had no idea of where he was, did not know how many meters away the wall was, only that a cold, hard floor was there beneath him. Harry could feel that at least._ _It was strange how time seemed to pass now. It was endless, and passed through him like liquid. It was beyond him, and could not touch him, and Harry did not notice it. Admittedly, he should have been bored by now, trapped in a place with no sensation, no sight or sound except the floor, but the many nights and days he had lain there had passed like seconds. Harry was beyond time._

 

_He did not know how he had gotten here. He had no memory of anything like it. At first, after the overwhelming terror had passed, Harry had searched for a memory, even his last memory, but did not know, could not remember. He knew who he was, and could remember his life, but did not know how long ago it had been, that life._

 

_And then he’d wondered. Was he dead? Was this the afterlife, this strange absence of everything but himself and gravity? No. Harry was sure he was alive. For he felt his lungs fill with air, and could feel the stone floor on his bare skin, tell the difference between it and the soft cotton of his clothes. He was dressed then. He was alive._

 

_But still, Harry wondered. He wondered until he dreamed his thoughts, his wonderings, and then woke to think of his dreams. He could never really remember much of them, just the emotions within them. Harry might wake gasping with exhilaration, with joy, but then, as soon as he had opened his eyes to the dark, it was lost to him. The dream, the memory of it, and its feeling._

 

_It was terrible, often. Not in a painful way, but often Harry would feel a panic pass over him like a rainstorm, and everything became real. He was trapped, and Harry would imagine that he would always be, trapped, forever, that he would never die, but would always remain here trapped, in his mind, with nothing but himself and a floor to know or sense or feel._ _But then it would be over. He would feel numb somehow, like a stone, sort of heavy and dull, and what had previously been so terrible and horrible, was now not good or bad. Just there. Just a possibility. It did not matter much to him._

 

 _Yet there remained, always, an inkling of unease, deep within him. Harry did not know how long he had been there. Did not know how long he would be there. Only that he did not want to be here._ What if I never leave?

*

Aunt Petunia was squawking at him, telling him to _wake up,_ to _go make breakfast boy,_ but he was sleeping, it embraced him, sleep, and wakefulness was a pest, an annoying seagull cawing at him, a cold breeze when he was warm. Harry did not want to get up. But it was no use. His aunt wouldn’t _shut up,_ though he wanted it, deeply, and so, he opened his eyes.  The small glint of sunlight felt like burning to Harry; he clenched his eyes shut with a hushed groan, before slowly inching them open again. Harry observed his bedroom in awe, and suddenly Aunt Petunia’s white apron seemed a dream to him. He blinked again, feeling some strange relief, some odd, misplaced happiness stirring in his gut. He did not understand why the sun’s rays through his bedroom window were like music, why the somewhat pale sky through his window was like a rainbow to him, a glossy, gorgeous, wonderful rainbow.

 

 It was glorious.

 

Harry could not help his smile, or the way his cheeks suddenly creased with joy. He ignored his aunt, rising from his bed with something like difficulty. His knees trembled, and he did not understand why.

 

Trying to ignore the shaking, Harry hurried down to the kitchen in his pajamas, and turned the stove on. As soon as he had made the Dursleys' breakfast, they would leave him well enough alone, so that he could be left tending to the garden. Having finished his chores, Harry was granted a cheese sandwich and a glass of water, before he hid away in his bedroom. He sat on his bed, chewing, staring rather despondently at Hedwig. The snowy owl sat in her cage looking back at him. Her feathered face seemed to be accusing him – _why did we have to come_ here? _Now I’m locked in a cage._

 “I’m sorry,” Harry sighed, and stretched his forefinger through the cage to stroke Hedwig’s head. She nipped at him. “I want to be here just as much as you do.” Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a lawnmower, and the sounds of Dudley’s latest video game booming rather aggressively up from the downstairs living room. It was slowly driving Harry insane.

 

 “The worst thing,” he told Hedwig, “is how bloody bored I am! I mean, I can’t even do my homework. Professor McGonagall is going to be so mad.”

 

He sighed again, trying not to think about what Snape would say. “I’d happily make breakfast, prune the garden, do whatever they want me to do. I can live with the chores. Just not this boredom.”

 

 Hedwig hooted in reply.

 

* 

 

 _The shadows had been there so long, they seemed to form patterns on his eyelids. The swirled and spun until Harry was dizzy with it, and he could not remember his own name. It was common, he remembered, he didn’t even like it that much. But it was a memento of his parents, his mother –_ why did she leave me all alone in that place? _And suddenly the darkness seemed to weigh on him with something like anger, and he hungered. What was his name again? Perhaps something like_ Tom-

*

Harry lay awake staring at his bedroom ceiling. Some strange feeling lay coiled in his belly; uneasiness? But it had a heavier feeling to it, something unnatural and not of him. It was stupid, he told himself. Harry was too old to be afraid of the dark, surely?

 

Shifting, he gazed at the window on his wall. It wasn’t even that dark; the light from the streetlamps streamed softly through the glass, so much so that he could easily make out Hedwig’s empty cage on the nightstand. He’d managed to release Hedwig, picking his uncle’s lock with a bobby pin he’d stolen from Aunt Petunia. But now he was alone, and he felt it too. Something prickled along the back of his neck, and Harry fell back into dark, disturbing dreams of nothingness.

 

*

 

The next morning, Harry awoke with a new feeling of excited expectation. He’d written letters to Hermione and Ron just two days ago, and as he hadn’t received any reply, he just knew that he’d get them today. His birthday, after all, was in a fortnight. Hedwig had since parked herself on the window pane (he’d opened one for her the night before) and he walked over to her, crooning softly under his breath.

 

“When I get my mail, I’ll send you off on a fun adventure,” Harry smiled at her. The owl stared back reproachfully as he opened the cage door, gesturing to it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured back. “You know what’ll happen if Uncle Vernon sees. Plus, you can sleep.” Although the bird hopped dutifully into the cage, Harry’s words didn’t save him from a soft nip on the hand.

 

He turned back to the clock, seeing that it was just past 7 o’clock. The Dursleys would be asleep still. Harry carted off downstairs, again in his pajamas, to make breakfast for himself. If he ate before they woke, he wouldn’t need to rely on cold bacon to be his first meal. He poured himself a tremendously tall glass of pulpy orange juice, and sipped it at the kitchen table, feeling rather rebellious. Harry then helped himself to two of the eggs, making himself the biggest omelet he could. It was only when he heard Aunt Petunia’s footsteps upstairs, that he threw his empty plate into the dishwasher, and began to cook the Dursleys' own breakfast. By the time they were downstairs, they’d see a dutiful nephew placing steaming plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages onto the dining table, along with a hot pot of coffee. It meant that Harry could scramble off, avoiding them for the rest of the day, as he waited for his friends’ letters.

 

But by late afternoon, they still hadn’t arrived.

 

Harry tried to ignore the lack of communication. He was feeling discouraged yes; he’d written to his two best mates the moment he’d gotten home, after all. But he was starved of companionship, whilst Hermione, being an only child, was probably spoiled with it by her parents, and Ron, well, he probably had difficulties _being_ alone. But Harry wasn’t like that, so he couldn’t expect to hear from his friends that soon.

 

At least, this was what he told himself.

 

But as the days went by, Harry made more excuses. Perhaps there was bad weather, or maybe Hermione had gone to Spain, and there were no owls there. Maybe Ron had moved to Australia.

Maybe they had forgotten all about him.

Maybe they didn’t exist, and Hogwarts had all been just a dream.

 

Yes. Harry tried to ignore the lack of communication. He wasn’t so sure he succeeded.

*

 

 _He hated this shadowy darkness. He felt so trapped and alone, always alone. Surely there had been a time when the world was open to him, and he could picture dappled sunlight on a wall, could feel the wind on his cheeks, hear voices, laughing, screaming…_  
_But now it was lost to him. He was trapped._ _Harry strained his ears, hoping to catch some faint sound._ _Anything to ease the agonizing_ sameness _. Nothing however. There was nothing. Nothing except the sound of his breathing._

_Harry held his breath for a moment, counted to ten, wondered what silence would do to him in this place. But the soft breaths still continued without him._

*

 

Lately Harry had been feeling the stirrings of strange emotion in his mind. Whilst preparing dinner, he’d been seized with a sudden fury that far outweighed anything he’d felt before. Harry did not recall _ever_ having felt so angry.

At other times, the emotions would be subtler. He’d start feeling excitement, as he tipped a watering can over a small rosebush. Or he’d feel a strange calmness seeping through his bones just as Aunt Petunia started to thump his door one morning, impatient for breakfast (as usual). They could be small, or large, but Harry would notice.

There was something unquestionably alien about them, something that just screamed _not Harry._ It was impossible, surely though. It’s not like he was feeling somebody else’s emotions. Even in the wizarding world, Harry was sure that wasn’t a ‘thing’. But what else could explain the strange, out of place sensations and feelings that would come upon him, seemingly out of the blue? Maybe it was a puberty thing, Harry thought. He felt increasingly disturbed at the idea that such a thing could affect him this much, however. Did everyone have to experience incorrect emotions?

For there was no other word for them; they didn’t respond to the situation, to his environment, happiness could spring from a headache, and sadness seemingly from brushing his teeth.

And it was _annoying._

 What’s more, lately Harry had been having strange dreams. He could hardly remember them when he woke, but what he did recall scared him. Strange flashes of _nothingness,_ of a deep, dank darkness that horrified him. And there was this feeling that came with them, of claustrophobia, the continuous thought thumping through his brain: _trapped, trapped, trapped._

Harry would push the strange visions away, ignoring the feelings as he attempted to endure the Dursleys, but they had been getting worse. Every morning he’d wake trembling, his mind awash with a dizzying darkness that took far too long to fade with the morning sunshine. Harry began to feel that the foreign emotions and the dreams were connected. The dreams tasted of the same substance the emotions did, the same flavor of _alien, not Harry._

They did not feel malevolent. But they still scared Harry. They made him react strangely.

For instance, two nights before, Harry had just prepared a roast dinner for the Dursleys. He’d poured a glass of red wine for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, and a big cup of lemonade for Dudley, and then sat down, digging into his first meal in hours. Dudley was already almost finished. For some reason, Uncle Vernon had been in a happy mood. He said almost no disparaging comments to Harry, and Aunt Petunia following his lead, also ignored him. Despite the occasional kicks from his cousin under the table, Harry had been feeling quite relaxed, and even a little relieved.

 It did not last long however.

Suddenly, an alien rage had gripped him in its claws, and Harry had to struggle not to a throw the plate of chicken at Dudley’s head. He had gripped his knife and fork fiercely, trying not to do _anything,_ when the entire table had started rocking, wine glasses falling and peas sliding off plates and onto the floor. Dudley’s chicken bones had actually clambered onto his lap.

Only his uncle’s furious shouts had shocked Harry enough to realize that it was _him_ causing the motion, and it had stopped with a final clatter. The rage had disappeared, leaving him weak, and trembling. Of course, that hadn’t placated Uncle Vernon, and especially not dear Duddykins. He was thrown into his room, the door slamming with a bang. It was not allowed to open until the next evening, and by then, Harry was dizzy with hunger and thirst.

A similar situation had caused Harry’s current imprisonment and subsequent contemplation. Obviously, the emotions were starting to make his accidental magic play up. Such a thing hadn’t occurred since last summer, after setting that snake on Dudley at the zoo, and Harry didn’t doubt that any more examples of it, and he’d be locked in his room for an eternity. He honestly expected to starve to death before school started, and even then, no one would find him.

 No one remembered him.

 Harry thrust that thought away like his dreams of the dark, refusing to think about his lack of mail. That wasn’t the issue.

 It was many hours later that he fell into a troubled sleep. He vaguely wondered if he could meet the person who had the alien emotions. It was his last thought before the darkness came....

 

_Hushed breathing that wasn’t his own. From all sides he heard it, soft but guttural. Wheezing._

_“Are you alright?” he called into the blackness. For a brief instance there was silence, before the breaths could be heard again. They were unsteady, sometimes hurried, sometimes slow and languid._

_“I won’t hurt you,” said Harry. The breaths stuttered, with fear he thought at first. But the strange noise from the darkness continued until Harry realized that it was in fact, laughter. The voice was_ laughing _at him._

_“Hurt me…” the shadows whispered back to him. “Too late for that child.” The voice faded back into the labored breathing of before._

_“You’re hurt?” Harry asked, curious and unnerved._

_But there was no answer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello - Hope you enjoy the story! I'm planning to continue it up until Harry's around 17 - I have all of the CoS chapters done so far. Also, Happy New Year, folks.


	2. Awakening

The next morning saw Harry waking with stuttered breaths in memory of the dream, still sharp in his mind. Surely that had been real? Even now, Harry could hear that crackling voice.

 

But it was simply too strange. Harry struggled to believe that the voice, the dreams, could be real. But then… Perhaps the strange emotions he’d been feeling had belonged to the voice.

 

No, not the voice, Harry corrected himself. The speaker. The person trapped in the darkness, all alone in that dim place. Suddenly Harry was anxious for the night.

 

It was a few more days before Harry was able to speak to the voice, the speaker, the prisoner again. He woke still with visions of shadowy jails and those foreign emotions still lit his magic alight, often setting the entire room abuzz. But there were no mysterious conversations, and he did not remember any detail like he had before.

 

Despite the frustrations of unsated curiosity, it helped to distract Harry from the fact that his friends still hadn’t written to him. Any time when he felt the loneliness about to crush him, sometimes winding him completely, Harry pushed it away, instead thinking about the shadows of his dreams. At those times, he often felt the alien emotions again.

 

Harry found that just thinking about the strange persona in his dreams drew the emotions out. They were rarely very angry at these times, or indeed, very strong. Particularly noticeable ones tended to drown him out of sheer strength regardless of Harry’s own inclinations. But when he purposefully drew on them, Harry only felt a thin thread of acceptance, of calmness, sometimes melancholy even. It made Harry even more curious about the owner of the mysterious voice.

 

*

 

_Finally, he found the prison again. It was just the same, dizzying and dark, filled with those soft breaths from all around._

_“It’s me,” Harry called again. “It’s me, Harry. What’s your name? Are you still hurt?”_

_Something shifted in the air around him, and words drifted to him as if on a breeze._

_“Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter…”_

_“Yes, that’s right,” Harry responded. “But who are you?”_

_Again that soft wind, but now it was heavier, as if the very air was filled with moisture._

_“I should kill you…_ Yesss… _kill, kill, kill, kill…”_

_Harry stepped back, suddenly afraid. But there was nothing to run from, nowhere to hide._

_“But where am I, Harry Potter? What is this strange cage? The old man had some sneaky place all set up for me, I assume.” The voice was becoming clearer, and Harry was surprised at how dry it sounded, how bitter. Yet Harry could almost feel the yearning in it himself, yes, it desperately wanted to know where it was._

_“Well,’ murmured Harry, “I can only guess, but I think we’re somewhere in my mind. I’m asleep, after all.”_

_There was a silence at his words, before suddenly something swelled up around him, so much so that Harry was sure he would drown in it. But the voice was soft when it spoke._

_“Your mind…”_

_Harry nodded, nervous. Could the voice even see him?_

_“I’ve been stuck in your mind for this long?” The voice sounded subdued, but Harry could feel its frustration, sense its terror in the humid press of the shadows on his skin. He wanted to comfort it, suddenly._

_“It can’t have been too long,” he attempted. “I’ve only noticed your presence very recently. It’s, what, the 24 th of July? 1992.”_

 

_But the pressure only increased._

_“Eleven years,” the voice intoned. Harry suddenly understood with a sort of dawning horror why the tone of the voice seemed so disturbed._

_“Eleven years?” Harry whispered back, distraught. “You’ve been stuck in my brain, this dark, horrible prison for eleven years? No wonder you want to kill me! I am so, terribly sorry,” he apologized profusely. And Harry_ felt _sorry. He couldn’t comprehend the idea that he’d trapped someone in his_ mind _for twelve years._

 

 _“I’ll get you out,” he said suddenly. “I can’t just_ leave _you in here.”_

 

_The shadows shifted again, drawing back and moving restlessly. Confusedly._

_“You would help me?” the voice asked, seeming to disbelieve him._

_“Of course,” Harry responded with no hesitation. “I am really so… so, sorry for all of this. You’ve been a prisoner here. I’d… I’d despise me if I were you.”_

_Harry felt, heard rustling, sensed its… amusement?_

_“Harry Potter. Do you know who I am?”_

_He shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. I mean, I’d like to know your name, but it doesn’t matter who you are. It’s still not right that you’ve been trapped here all this time.”_

_He felt his face turn red with something close to anger. There was misery there too, and all he could do was feel so terribly upset at the voice, the speaker’s imprisonment._

_“I can feel them you know. Your emotions.” Harry spoke more softly, and felt his voice crack slightly on the words. “I’ve had visions of being trapped, even just for a moment or too. And it was the worst. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like for twelve years. So of course I have to help you. You’ve_ _been trapped in_ my _mind, so it’s_ my _responsibility.”_

_There was a brief silence._

_“You can call me… Tom,” the voice replied. “And as to how I was imprisoned here… I don't know. I can’t remember.”_

_There was excitement in the air now, and something else too, that Harry could taste, but did not recognize. It was sour and bitter, but sweet too, like… sherbet. Lemon?_

 

So it was with no fear that Harry returned to wakefulness. Only anticipation.

 

Although Harry didn’t have any more nightly conversations with Tom, he spent many of the hours deliberating on how he might free the man. As he dusted one of the living room cabinets some days later, Harry admitted to himself that he had no answer. Maybe Hermione with all her genius (he fought the heavy feeling in his chest at the thought of his friend) might be able to, Harry just… couldn’t.

 

And the worst part was that even though he _wanted_ to, to learn and research for Tom’s sake, he just had no way of doing so. Uncle Vernon had locked all his books away, and Harry doubted he’d be allowed to visit Diagon Alley. Furthermore, the Hogwarts Library was many miles away, all the way in Scotland.

 

Harry felt quite distinctly horrible. It wasn’t enough that Tom had been _imprisoned in Harry’s head_ for twelve years (and Harry regularly tired of that experience). No. Harry was incapable of helping even after he’d promised.

 

But the hours spent whiling away on Tom’s problem weren’t for nothing. Harry had prodded and pulled at the faint link he’d felt at the back of his mind with Tom. The longer he had spent doing so, the more noticeable Tom’s presence became, until Harry could spent the entire day with the comforting pressure.

 

Moreover, he was not only getting better at drawing on Tom’s emotions, but also at pushing them back. He rarely did so however; the feel of another presence, just there at the edge of his consciousness was a strange one, but Harry felt it especially soothing. Particularly in his ‘family’s’ presence.

 

Whenever a purple vein bulged in Uncle Vernin’s forehead, or Dudley kept on kicking him underneath the breakfast table, Harry would focus on that gentle presence, feel its warmth flow through him, and breath a sigh of relief.

 

And sometimes Harry could feel Tom prodding back. Pulling on him, as if the man wanted to come out into the light. Harry would feel guilty then. He had no way of helping Tom, no matter how much he desperately wanted to.

 

It was the day before his birthday, July 30th that everything changed. Harry woke alone but for the Hedwig, and despite himself, immediately opened the window, looking for any coming owls. He spent a good hour, just staring out at the horizon, hoping against hope for _some_ sort of message from his absent friends.

 

It wasn’t just Hermione and Ron. Harry also missed Fred and George, Dean and Seamus, Neville, Hagrid, even Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore. He missed having a home where he could talk to someone without the expectation of immediate punishment.

 

He missed class time, where he would learn even more about the world of magic.

 

He missed Hermione and Ron’s constant bickering, playing Exploding Snap and Wizard’s Chess in the common room, eating chocolate frogs and seeing the paintings move.

 

He missed being late for class because of the moving staircases, and getting lost in the huge castle during a late night exploration.

 

He even missed running away from Mrs Norris those same nights.

 

At the moment, Harry felt yearning for Hogwarts reverberate through his very being, felt it pluck water from his eyes, and wash through his bones in a very real ache. It settled somewhere deep inside him, the loneliness, and something responded.

 

For Harry loved Hogwarts. And in his mind, everyone had forgotten him, again, he was betrayed. Yet in his yearning he began to pull at Tom’s presence, pull at his distant calmness, that alien pressure of _not Harry._ He could feel Tom begin to seep into his mind like water, a small trickle that soon became a wave. But what before had been a rainstorm was now a mighty flood, and Harry almost fell with the force of it.

 

The window started to shake, as did the floor, and Harry looked with some distant astonishment as his very room seemed to bounce. Hedwig’s cage almost toppled over before Harry righted it, but he couldn't stop his desk chair from falling to the ground, or even some of the pens on the desk.

 

The lamp on his nightstand tumbled to the floor, light bulb still on, and Harry could _feel_ Tom in his mind like never before.

 

“ _Harry, Harry, Harry,”_ he heard, but not with his ears.

 

 _“Tom?”_ he thought excitedly, previous troubles almost forgotten. _“Tom is that you?”_

_“Harry… Is this the world through your eyes?”_ The room continued to buzz with what Harry could tell was Tom’s fear, his shock, and his overwhelming hope.

 

“ _This is my room,”_ Harry replied, returning to his bed to sit down. His knees were trembling slightly. He ignored everything around him, only focusing on Tom.

 

 _“Your room,”_ Tom replied. “ _You were missing Hogwarts,”_ he said now, some conflicted feeling up from Tom. _“I had forgotten,”_ he continued, _“What that felt like.”_

_“Hogwarts,”_ said Harry, _“is my home. But is seems everyone has forgotten about me.”_ He told Tom of how no one had written to him, or replied to his letters.

 

 _“And this made you sad?”_ Tom sounded (but Harry couldn’t _hear_ him), confused. _“So sad you managed to pull me out of…”_

_“I’d never had friends before,”_ he replied. Another feeling now emanated from Tom, surprising and lovely to Harry. Understanding.

 

 _“I see,”_ Tom answered. He really did.

 

It wasn’t long before Aunt Petunia burst into the room to complain of the racket, and order Harry to go make breakfast for them all. It was a Sunday, so they’d all been able to sleep in, but that didn’t exclude Harry from chores.

Nothing could dampen Harry’s spirits today though. He was no longer alone, after all. He had even partially solved Tom’s problem. Yes, today was a very good day in Harry’s mind.

 

He quietly spoke to Tom throughout the day, explaining to him about his muggle relatives, and the various chores required of him. And again, he sensed that same understanding as before. Tom seemed to grasp Harry’s feelings whenever the word “Freak!” was uttered, or how the only way to call off Dudley was to pretend to cast a spell.

 

 _“It is good_ ,” Tom had said, “ _that you haven’t told them you are unable to cast magic before you come of age.”_

 

 _“Yes,”_ Harry had responded. He needn’t have said more.

 

Harry could also sense Tom’s awe at finally _seeing_ again, feel it affecting himself. Harry often caught himself admiring the way sunlight fell, or even the paisley wallpaper in the living room. Even just the chatter of voices at the dinner table (which he had no part in) was sometimes overwhelming.

 

“ _Your emotions are affecting me,”_ Harry had told Tom at this same dinner.

 

 _“Yes,”_ Tom had replied. _“And yours are affecting me.”_

Harry could believe that. There was far less fury radiating from Tom now, and when Harry delved deeper into the now very strong link, he could find a kind of quiet gratitude, that to Harry’s surprise was in regards to himself. He also found the reluctance that surrounded that gratitude, and wondered at it. He didn’t ask however. Tom was entitled to what privacy he could have in his situation. Harry would give him what he could.

 

After the initial awe began to diminish, Tom seemed very curious as to Harry’s life. For instance, why did he live with his aunt and uncle? How long had he known he was a wizard? What accidental magic had he performed as a child?

Tom seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with Lord Voldemort too. But perhaps after twelve years it was natural to want to know about the downfall of a wizard that had previously menaced your entire community.

 

The conversation went something like this.

 

 _“Harry…”_ Tom whispered. Harry had been outside the living room window, weeding some rather nasty rosebushes. Tom’s whisper surprised him enough that he pricked his finger, starting a little.

 

“Yeah?” Harry wondered aloud, sucking at his bloody finger.

 

 _“Why are you here with Muggles, weeding the garden? You’re a wizard. Surely you have… better things to do. Even homework, perhaps?”_ Harry didn’t know why Tom was curious about homework of all things, but he replied easily enough.

_“Well, my parents were murdered,”_ he began. _“So I have to live with my relatives. Aunt Petunia was my mum’s sister, you see. I’ve been here since I was one.”_

Tom didn’t miss a beat, seemingly unsurprised about Harry’s rather morbid history.

 

_“Did they know about magic?”_

Harry hesitated now. “ _Yes…”_ he said slowly. _“But they kept it a secret. They think magic is evil. They quite despise me for it, you know. I only found out I was a wizard last year.”_

_“Yes, yes I see,”_ Tom replied. _“And…”_ Harry sensed a deep hesitation on Tom’s part. _“What of who killed your parents? Were they ever caught?”_ There was something riding on this question, but all Harry saw was Tom’s apprehension.

 

 _“I don’t know what exactly happened,”_ he attempted to explain. _“No one does, except maybe Dumbledore. But it was Lord Voldemort that did it.”_

There was an upsurge in Tom’s interest now, and Harry knew that it was because he’d recognized the name of the dark wizard.

 

“When he tried to kill me, the curse rebounded and he kind of… disappeared. Oh, and I got my scar too.” Harry fingered the pale lightning bolt gingerly and remembered:

_screaming and yelling and crying and laughing and cackling and a green flash, blinding before shadows come again…_

“Everyone thinks he’s dead actually. I’m sort of famous of for it. Everyone calls me the Boy Who Lived, but I don't even remember it. As I said, I only found out this year.”

_“Quite”,_ Tom agreed. There were multiple emotions thumping around in there, but Harry thought he should finish first.

 

“He’s not though,” Harry said. Tom’s silence, he took as a queue to continue. “He was possessing Professor Quirrel, the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, to try and steal the Philosopher’s Stone from Hogwarts. My friends and I… we stopped him. Quirrel died…” _the screams and the heat and the blistering, crumbling skin of Quirrel’s face_ “and Voldemort fled.” And _the furious cries of ‘KILL HIM! KILL HIM!’, that chalk white face with its glaring scarlet eyes._ “I don’t know where he is now, but he’s alive. And he wants to kill me.” And _Avada Kedabra with its terrible green light…_

There was a long silence once Harry had finished speaking. Harry didn’t force it. He went back to trimming the roses, trying very hard to ignore the images that flashed before his eyes. The memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again - thank you so much for the kudos, comments and bookmarks of last chapter. They were quite frankly, lovely to see. As I'm sure you all know, they are always welcome. If you notice any mistakes in either a canon reference or grammar (if such a thing occurred I would be deeply embarrassed), please tell me!! I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> PS. Did I mention that I don't own Harry Potter? Apologies to J.K. Rowling for my forgetfulness. I hope she in no way, disapproves of my 'appropriation'.


	3. Dobby the House Elf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some basic descriptions and dialogue taken from J.K Rowling's Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Chapter 3 - Dobby the House Elf

 

On the morning of 31st July, Harry forgot to go downstairs to make breakfast and he most certainly forgot that it was his birthday; he woke up to Aunt Petunia’s rabid barking after sleeping in. It had been unwise, foolish, _stupid_ to stay up the night before perhaps, but Tom had been asking so many questions, and Harry had been… Well, it wasn’t often that he found himself with a willing participant of conversation during the summer time. Even just remembering the many hours he had spent just _talking…_ it made Harry’s lips curl up in a little smile. Having spent all summer alone, and with his absent friends _(don’t think about them, don’t think about them),_ Tom seemed a boon. Surely it was too good to be true?

So it had been with rather prominent bags under his eyes that Harry trekked downstairs to make breakfast, as usual.  As he set the table and began to fry the eggs however, he found that he could actually _sense_ Tom’s curiosity. It seemed to waft over to him rather like the scent of sizzling bacon did from the dining table, except it was all inside his mind. It tasted like caramel; that same sticky sweetness, that thirstiness in the aftertaste that Harry associated with the flavour. It arose on his tongue so suddenly, so achingly and inquisitively, that he paused on flipping an egg.

 

 _“Do you make breakfast every day?”_ Tom asked.

 

Harry nodded his head and then thought better of it. “Um, yes,” he said to the pan, the stove, the walls around him, the kitchen table. The silence that followed seemed to ache dully. Harry poured orange juice into a glass not meant for him; it was strange to think of that caramel scent being present because of _Harry._

 

And then suddenly, “ _What’s the date?”_ The question surprised Harry so much he spilled some of the juice, and had to hurriedly wipe it up with a cloth.

 

“The 31st… that’s… it’s my birthday. 31st July,” he said softly, and refilled the glass.  And suddenly loneliness filled him up, right to the very brim so that he was bursting with it. His eyes burned but not from tears, no because they were _dry_ and he wasn’t crying, he wasn’t, and that was what was so bad about it. Happy Birthday indeed.  Harry felt almost as shocked from his emotional outburst as Tom was surprised (and uncomfortable, though Harry ignored that).

“Happy birthday to me then,” he murmured softly, blinking rapidly and placing the cutlery on the table. He pushed away thoughts of Hermione and Ron with a violence that made his hands clench. They had forgotten him then. He righted a fork so that it was just straight, and ignored the urge to… _do something._ Do anything. Just to do _something._ They had all forgotten him, even Hagrid. Unless Hogwarts had all been some hallucination, and didn’t that then make Harry insane?

 

He pushed that thought away too.

 

But Harry could not help returning to his memory of Hogwarts and that stupid, squashed pink cake that had made him so utterly happy. Its clumsy green writing: _Happy Birthday Harry!_

 

_‘Harry – yer a wizard.’_

_‘I’m a_ what?’

The memory made Harry smile.

 

Harry was pushed out of the way so that Dudley could sit down, right where Harry had placed the glass of orange juice. He wiped his face clean of any feeling, and noticed another strange taste from Tom, something sharp and metallic, bleeding out like frustration.

 

 _“What’s the matter?_ ” Harry closed his eyes, scrunched them up as he focused hard on the words, tracing them in his mind to get them across to Tom.

 

And Tom received the message. Harry felt the faint surprise like it was his own. _“That fat muggle irritates me,”_ was the reply.

 

It was a comment that made Harry smile from the sudden rush of pleasure, the first muffled laugh of his twelfth birthday. The irritated glance from Dudley only served to make his smile wider, the laughter harder to hide.

 

 _“Yes, Dudley tends to get that response. Except from Aunt Petunia though.”_ Harry was saved from elaborating when the very woman in question walked in. She sat in the chair beside Dudley, placing a sloppy kiss on his shiny forehead.

 

“Good morning sweetums! How did you sleep? It really is wonderful to have you back for the holidays. I hate you being away all day.”

 

The burning in his chest that was disgust and nothing else. Never anything else ( _like envy or jealousy or searing rage that made him want to SCREAM--- )_

 

Dudley grunted, crunching on a slice of bacon, and Harry looked down, distracted by Tom’s awed abhorrence at his muggle cousin. Harry grinned at his lap, a tiny curl of the lip that went unnoticed by his relatives.

 

The breakfast passed peacefully ( _normally)_ enough. Uncle Vernon came down a few minutes later, and they were all ignoring him as they sipped at their orange juice that _he had poured_ until-

 

“Third time this week!” his Uncle boomed from across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

 

“She’s bored,” Harry tried, a useless, silly, foolish endeavor. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night…” He wouldn’t succeed. He _knew_ that. But he couldn’t not try. He just couldn’t.

 

Dudley asked Harry to pass the bacon that he had cooked. “You forgot the magic word,” he replied, angry and stubborn and still stupid. The morning didn’t get much better.

 

Later, as Harry sat moodily on the garden bench outside, Tom stirred again.

 

 _”Are they always like that?_ ” he asked.

 

Harry glared at the hedge opposite him. It appeared purposefully annoying to him, as green and leafy and _hedgy_ as it was. Yes. Sometimes. “Always,” he muttered, looking down to the grass (still so annoyingly green) at his feet. “It’s better than it was, than it used to be. I’ve been to Hogwarts now so it’s not so bad now.”

 

A waft of that thirsty, curious caramel again. _“Really bad? What does that entail?”_

 

Harry was quiet for a moment, and pictured a gloomy darkness, a thin crack of light from under the door and spiders too, crawling over the ceiling and the walls, which were shadowed and vague, only solid grey where the light touched them, and Harry wanted to swallow that light so he need never fear the darkness again but - “I lived in the cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven and my letter came. They moved me to the second bedroom because they were scared” - and it had been so pleasantly _light_ \- “It became a lot more bearable after that.”

 

He remembered the cupboard very well. He remembered being  _entombed..._  

 

Eyes back, staring at the hedge, ignoring whatever Tom was feeling because Harry wouldn’t be able to bear sympathy, even if it tasted cloudlike and warmly fuzzy (which it did) so he stared at the annoyingly green and leafy hedge, hating it. He hated that hedge, because he had watered it and cared for it and now it was grown, green, leafy and staring back at him and-

 

Dudley appeared, jeering at him. “I know what day it is,” and the boy smirked.

 

The spot where the hedge had been staring at him had vanished. But Harry would have sworn that there had been eyes there, enormous green ones staring right at him. “What?” he said, eyes motionless.

 

“I know what day it is,” Dudley said again walking right up to him.

 

“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”

 

He could actually taste Tom’s smirk.

 

“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you got frien-”

 

Harry, full of seething anger that couldn’t possibly be  _his_ was quick to interrupt. “Are you sure you want to anger me? What if… oh I don’t know… you end up with another tail?”

 

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of utter panic on his face. “You c-can’t - Dad told you-”

 

“I don’t care what Uncle Vernon told me,” Harry spat, surprised even at his own fury. Where was it all coming from? “Jiggery Pokery! Hocus Pocus! Squiggly Wiggly!”

 

And suddenly Tom’s laughter, light and airy like fairy floss and a summer’s breeze made it possible to breathe. Dudley was rushing back to house howling, and Harry could only gasp in and out, smiling widely like he’d won the lottery. All the anger had sagged out of him, as if it had never been (and never been his at all).

 

It didn’t last long, this lovely, breathless interim. He ducked as Aunt Petunia aimed a soapy frying pan at his head, her face tightened in anger. Harry hardly heard her rushed reprimands, staring at her pursed lips and wanting to poke at her sharp chin. It was better than hearing her endless reprimands; he must clean the windows and wash the car and mow the lawn, mustn’t forget trimming the flowerbeds of course, and pruning the roses, watering too! Oh, and he mustn't forget to repaint to the garden fence - it was peeling. But it had been worth it, Harry thought, seeing Dudley’s smug pudgy face turn pale and trembling.

 

“ _The muggles are punishing you?”_ Tom’s voice echoed in Harry’s ear, angry and indignant.

 

 _“_ However did you guess?” He mumbled to his new friend as he trotted outside into the hot sun.

 

Tom’s small chuckle made it a little better. _“Luck.”_

 

Finally, at half-past seven Aunt Petunia ordered him inside. Walking into the kitchen (and smelling strongly of paint), Harry almost moaned at the scent of the pork roasting in the oven. On top of the fridge too stood tonights pudding; a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. His mouth watered.

 

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon”, snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table.

 

 _“Why those insipid little muggles!”_ hissed Tom, a wave of spite rolling over Harry like a coat of ashes, still hot. _“You’ll get back at them won’t you Harry?”_

 

Harry tried to ignore the taste of rusting iron in his mouth as he swallowed his meager supper. _“Of course not,_ ” he responded. _“I’m not doing chores all day again.”_ He barely had to blink to send the thought this time. But before Tom could reply, he was pulled out of the kitchen by Aunt Petunia.

 

“Upstairs! Hurry!”

 

As he passed the door to the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang, and Uncle Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

 

“Remember boy, one sound…”

 

Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, stepped inside, closed the door and turned to collapse on his bed. The trouble was, there was already somebody sitting on it.

 

*

 

Harry stared uncomprehendingly at the creature on his bed. It had large bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls, eyes which Harry vaguely recalled seeing in the hedge earlier. In the silence, Dudley’s voice echoed up from the hall: “May I take your coats Mr and Mrs Mason?”

The creature slumped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its thin long nose touched the carpet. It looked to be wearing an old pillowcase with rips for arm and leg holes. Tom’s voice, surprised, but calm and unhurried seeped into Harry’s confused mind.

 

_“It’s a house elf - why it’s here I don’t know. It serves an old wizarding family. It must have some sort of agenda; ask why it’s here.”_

 

Feeling better already, and immensely grateful for Tom’s presence ( _existence?_ ) Harry smiled nervously at the elf. “Er… hello,” he began.

 

“Harry Potter,” said the house elf in a high pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… such an honour it is…”

 

“Thanks,” replied Harry glancing at his bedroom door concernedly. He hung onto Tom’s mild amusement (which was both fruity and syrapy at once) like a lifeline. “Who are you?” he asked, as he edged along the wall to sink into his desk chair.

 

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house elf,” it replied.

 

 _“A familiar name,”_ murmured Tom. _“But where have I heard it before?”_

 

Remembering Tom’s earlier instructions,  Harry said quickly “Not that I’m not pleased to meet you…” a slight pause, “but is there any particular reason you’re here?”

 

“Oh yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir… It is difficult sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…”

 

Harry ignored Tom’s ill-tasting annoyance.  “Sit down,” he said instead, pointing toward the bed. But to Harry’s horror, the elf burst into tears.

 

“S-sit down!” Dobby wailed. “Never… never ever…”

 

Harry cursed inside his mind, prompting a silent snigger from Tom as he heard the voices downstairs falter.

 

“I’m sorry!” he whispered glancing at the bedroom door. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” Tom snorted, and the ugly taste of irritation began to fade.

 

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard. Like an equal - “

 

Harry, trying to say ‘Shh!’ and look comforting simultaneously, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself however, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harry in watery adoration.

 

“You can’t have met many-” Harry began but was interrupted by Tom.

 

_“If you finish that sentence, your relatives will most definitely hear the house elf’s reaction downstairs.”_

 

Abruptly Harry stopped speaking. “Dobby,” he said instead. “Why have you come here? Have your family sent you?”

 

Dobby visibly shuddered. “Oh no sir, no… Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you sir… Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir-”

 

Harry listened with a quiet, growing horror. “You can’t leave? Escape?”

 

Tom answered for him. _“They are bound, Harry. Slaves.”_

 

Like me, Harry thought.

 

But Dobby continued. “A house elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free… Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir…”

 

Harry stared. “And I thought I was hard done by staying here for another four weeks,” he murmured. “This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t I?” There was a strange twist in Tom’s emotions at that, a kind of angry bitterness that rose up quickly, before being tightly bound. It happened so fast that Harry didn’t taste a single flavour. He was distracted however, by Dobby’s wails of gratitude.

 

“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby… Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir but of your goodness, Dobby never knew,” the house elf said, gazing adoringly up at Harry. And that strange feeling emanated again from Tom, a combination of heaviness and buried, shadowed colour that Harry couldn’t reach, as if it was being hidden from him by a barrier. Like a wall had been erected that he just couldn’t climb over. But beyond it, he could sense something. Something heavy and hollow and afraid, and sad too. Too much sadness to measure.

 

“Whatever you’ve heard of my greatness is a load of rubbish,” he said to Dobby. “I’m not even at the top of my year, that’s Hermione and she’s-” he stopped, feeling that same sadness but from himself now, as if the very air was stolen from him. Thinking of Hermione hurt.

 

“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Harry speaks not of his triumph over He Who Must Not be Named.”

 

Sadness abruptly disappeared, to be replaced by burning, fearful recognition. But of what?

 

“Voldemort?” said Harry.

 

“Dobby heard tell,” the house elf said hoarsely, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago… that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”

 

And there it was, twisting behind the straining wall, rising up from Tom like an avalanche, too tall to be contained. A huge mountain of conflict, of anger, disgust, and something that tasted sweetly, too sweetly, of relief. But it was all forgotten (for now, for now) at Dobby’s next words.

 

“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

 

A small silence that drew even Tom from his distraction. The sound of scraping cutlery from downstairs.

 

“W-what?” he stammered out. “But I’ve got to go back.” Some foreign agitation pushed the words from Harry’s mouth, and it was as if there were two of him saying it: “Hogwarts is my home.”

 

 _“Ask why,”_ Tom urged him, and Harry didn’t argue.

 

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. The conversation that followed did not enlighten Harry much at all.

 

“Not - not He Who Must Be Named, sir,” said Dobby. But his eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a hint.

 

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?” Harry wondered, but the sudden vast emptiness (a physical silence) from Tom distracted him. _“Tom?”_

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry shook his head to clear it. “My friends are at Hogwarts!”

 

That taste and scent of caramel again, confused and uncertain. And Tom's passing voice. " _They are so important to you that_ this  _is your other reason?"_

 

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby responded slyly.

 

Harry stopped, stared, white-hot anger suddenly flickering at him. “What have you done with my letters?”

 

Something in Harry’s face spurred on Dobby. “Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts.”

 

Harry, about to refuse adamantly, was again rendered mute by Tom. _“Say yes,”_ he was cautioned. “ _He will stop bothering you if you do - you don’t have to not go to Hogwarts just because you promise it in this moment.”_

 

Harry blinked, something in him hesitant to lie. But the sight of his friends’ letters in Dobby’s hand made up his mind for him.

 

“Fine,” he muttered, glaring at Dobby. “Just fine. Now give me back my letters.”

 

Dobby seemed surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected this response at all, before a smile blossomed on his face.

 

“Harry Potter swears that he will not return to school?”

 

Harry rubbed his forehead, suddenly exhausted. “Yes, I promise.”

 

Dobby didn’t seem to notice Harry’s sudden tiredness. He only smiled even more widely, gazing at Harry raptly and shaking his hand three times before disappearing with a loud crack. Harry moaned and collapsed onto his bed.

 

“All day chores and then that! Is it ever over?”

 

Tom responded seriously, however. “ _You’re very lucky you know. If you had refused too vehemently, he might’ve tried to get you expelled somehow. Caused a ruckus, anyway he knew how. House elves are good at that sort of thing.”_

 

Harry cringed, just imagining. “Oh god - I would’ve been locked in here for a week! Knowing the Dursleys, they’d have fed me through the catflap.”

 

He felt Tom’s frustrated agreement, and a slight hush settled over them. Distantly, he could hear Uncle Vernon bidding the Masons goodnight.

 

“Thank you,” Harry said, finally. “You saved me.”

 

That huge mountain of emotion, all trapped behind Tom’s wall suddenly teetered as if about to fall. But it remained standing and was not mentioned by either of them. “ _Where are all your things anyway?”_ Tom eventually questioned. _“Your trunk, your wand?”_

 

Harry closed his eyes, a second wave of exhaustion settling over him. _“Uncle Vernon locked them away._ ” He yawned, too tired for words.

 

A moment of flaming hot fury, before a calm reply. _“We’ll have to get your things back. You can’t_  not _do your schoolwork, Harry.”_

 

“Mmm,” he replied, and all was shadows once again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Can you believe it - my laptop actually died permanently. So I had to retype and edit this all over again. I have a handwritten draft of like 100 pages luckily, but still... this was supposed to be updated sooner. Sorry!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I enjoyed writing it - who doesn't enjoy writing Dobby? Thank you for the kudos, bookmarks, and of course, the comments. They really are lovely to see -they make me smile! 
> 
> Ps. I don't own Harry Potter, because J.K Rowling does. I, like many other people in the world, am very sad about this, so I write fanfiction instead.


	4. Wandless Magic

The Dursleys were so pleased with how their dinner had gone the night before that they barely spoke to Harry the next morning. Harry appreciated the respite; it gave him a chance to speak to Tom without worrying about accidentally ignoring his relatives.

 

“ _Does your uncle have the key on him?”_ Tom asked as Harry sipped his morning orange juice at the breakfast table. It had been watered down slightly by Aunt Petunia.

 

“ _No,”_ said Harry. “ _He has a key ring that he keeps his keys on, but when he’s home, they’re just left on the hallstand.”_ He chewed on a spoonful of cereal, which had long gone soggy. _“The only thing I don’t understand is how they won’t notice my school things in my room.”_

_“There is that,”_ Tom agreed. “ _But you’re a wizard Harry. You can cast a Disillusionment Charm on it.”_

_“But I’m underage!”_

 

Harry imagined that if Tom had a body, he would be smirking. It seemed to be a common expression he imagined upon his new friend. “ _Plus I’m only a first year, technically. No way could I do that kind of spell, even_ with _a wand.”_

 

_“Harry. As for the difficulty – well that is a concern. But you have me to help you, and I’m very well acquainted with it. And can’t you remember the many times you used magic without a wand? Before Hogwarts? If you put your will behind it, you’re capable of many things.“_

Harry hesitated, mulling over his memories. He earned a querulous glance from Aunt Petunia, in the chair opposite; she thought that he was plotting some mischief due to his introspection. She was right too. _“I guess so… There was that time_   _I_ was _running away from Dudley and his friends. They were Harry Hunting.”_

A flash of rust-flavored fury, ill-concealed from Tom, before a calm, _“Please continue…”_

_“Well,”_ murmured Harry, remembering:

 

the burning in his legs as he runs, he needs to get away before they _trap_ him, and the

sharp twist of fear, heavy in his heart as he sprints, he flies, he needs to _get away…_

_“I kind of just_ appeared _on the school roof. I got into loads of trouble for climbing on school property,”_ he told Tom.

_‘What were you thinking, doing a thing like that?’ said the Principal._

_‘Stupid boy’,_ _said Aunt Petunia._

_‘FREAK’_ he remembered most of all.

 

_“But I didn’t. It was like… I just teleported or something.”_

Something liked pleased surprise drifted to him from Tom, the brisk flavour of peppermint dancing on Harry’s tongue. “ _You apparated. That’s very rare for accidental magic, Harry. I am certain that you are more capable than you think.”_

Harry felt his face grow hot, and let the silence speak his thoughts about _that._ He pressed the glass of orange juice (now almost empty) against his cheeks to cool them.

 

 _“Any other magical encounters or experience you’d be willing to share?”_ asked Tom. _“Pre-Hogwarts perhaps?”_

_“Well, I guess there was that time last year,”_ Harry stood, placing the glass down and brought his bowl to the sink. _“It was Dudley’s birthday, and we all went to the zoo.”_ He began to scrub said cousin’s plate, which had been discarded carelessly on the kitchen counter for Harry to clean up. _“There was this great big boa constrictor there. Now Dudley and his friend Piers were looking at it and soon got bored. So I kind of... apologized to it for them being rude you know and… well… it talked back.”_

He had just placed Dudley’s dish on the drying rack, when the definite bolt of shock ( _it tasted like lightning bolt, though Harry didn’t know how he knew_ that) from Tom stopped him from continuing.

_“You spoke … to the snake? It understood you? You understood_ it?” There was a strange tone to Tom’s voice, as much as there could be to a sound that couldn’t be heard.

 

 _“Yes,”_ said Harry. _“Why? Is it uncommon? I thought all wizards could do it?”_

Something like bewildered laughter floated over to him from Tom. _“No Harry! Parseltongue, the language of snakes, is an incredibly rare ability. Only certain bloodlines possess it. I didn’t think the Potters-“_

Harry seized on that thought like gold. “ _You knew my parents! Could they speak to snakes too?”_

Agitated, too agitated to clean up, Harry left the cutlery in the sink and quickly walked back up to room; his relatives had since departed the kitchen. But Tom was silent for a long time, and Harry couldn’t feel him at all when he opened his bedroom door. That wall again. How irritating. Finally, just as Harry was beginning to lose hope, and had lain down on his bed ready to mope, Tom answered him.

_“No Harry. I didn’t know your parents.”_

Harry tried to restrain his disappointment. “That’s alright,’ he replied aloud to the silence of his room, trying too hard to sound casual.

 

 _“The Potters were quite a… well-known wizarding family,”_ Tom added, causing Harry to sit up in his eagerness. “ _They were famous for being in Gryffindor, much like the Malfoys are a prominent Slytherin family. They had strong connections in the Ministry of Magic and had seats on the Wizengamot, but otherwise, didn’t participate politically. They were however… quite wealthy.”_

Harry sat like a sponge, soaking in this new information with awe. He instantly wanted to know more, wanted to ask and to learn, wanted to _meet_ them and speak to them, to know them and be a son for once, be normal and not be the Boy Who Lived with dead parents and the mortal enemy of an insane, evil wizard, but – he couldn’t. It was impossible. So instead he asked, “What’s the Wizengamot?”

 

Tom, as you can imagine, was only too happy to answer him. Harry hadn’t paid much attention to the rusty anxiety that had emanated from Tom for the whole of the conversation. Harry, if he had wondered at all, had thought it had been his own.

 

They were sidetracked enough that they only returned back to the planning of their mission, goal, and quest when Harry was back on garden duty that afternoon.

 

 _“You’ll have to practice casting the Disillusionment Charm,”_ said Tom as Harry snipped a thorn off one of the roses. It had a thin, elegant stem and soft, reddish petals that broke easily. “ _You’ll do one on the cupboard so they don’t see what’s missing, and one on your trunk, once it is back in your room.”_

Harry nodded sagely, though inwardly he was a bundle of nerves and excitement. He had pricked his fingers on the rose stems far more times for what was normal, had torn at least six petals from their rose counterparts and his trousers were far dirtier than he’d ever let them become usually due to kneeling in the dirt. It was Harry, who would have to wash them after all.

 

Of course, Tom knew all of this. “ _There’s no need to be anxious, Harry,”_ he was told, feeling his neck grow red. “ _You have me after all.”_

_*_

That evening Harry departed to his room even earlier than usual. He was anxious to start practicing, so much in fact that his friends’ letters lay on his nightstand, unopened and unwrapped.

 

 _“First off,”_ said Tom, _“I want you to close your eyes.”_

Apprehensive, Harry did so; the world around him fogged into nothingness.

 

_“Good. Now I want you to think of that moment when you first received your wand. Imagine that warmth going up your arms and into your spinal cord. Do you feel it?”_

 

Harry nodded, forgetting that Tom couldn’t see him. He could actually feel prickles of heat flowing along his bones and up his spine. It almost… ticked.

 

“ _Imagine those sparks pooling together at your fingertips. They’ve circulated throughout your entire body, but now they rush through your shoulders, along your arms, to your hands, to your fingers.”_

The amount of heat slowly increased, and Harry wanted to clench and unclench his hands for the sensation of it.

 

_“Now before it begins to hurt, let that warmth out into the air from your fingertips. Hold your palm out flat, and imagine a ball of that warmth pouring into the air above your hand. Now open your eyes.”_

To Harry’s great delight, there sat upon his hand a small ball of blue light, similar in shade to a _lumos._ It emitted a faint warmth and he could still feel those sparks pouring through the skin of his palm into the ball of light.

 

The taste of mint and sweetness now, and a lightness in his very being. Harry remembered his first spell, that same shock of success and wonder too. Always wonder.

 

_“I take it you’ve never done that before?”_

 

Harry shook his vehemently. “ _No never. I’ve_ never _done magic without a wand before, not like that. And I’ve never…_ felt that before.” The lightness and the warmth and the sheer joy of it.

 

The blue ball of light faded into nothingness.

 

 _“Yes,”_ said Tom. _“They don’t tend to teach you such things at Hogwarts. Control is… difficult without a wand, and the more difficult spells can be dangerous. However, I believe it is important for you to become more sensitive to your magic.”_

Harry sat down on bed, suddenly reeling from exhaustion. His vision fogged, but he ignored it, curious, so curious. He wanted to sleep, but he wanted this more.

 

“ _Will you teach me more? Please…”_

 

A warm feeling arising that wasn’t Harry at all. _“Yes, of course,”_ said Tom. _“After all, you need to be able to cast a Disillusionment Charm. Now… can you do it again?”_

By the time Harry had called forth three blue balls of light, it was taking less than a minute. He was however, so exhausted, that when Tom called an end to the lesson, he could hardly stand upright. But he fell asleep to the lovely warm feeling of Tom’s smile, which Harry thought as sleep overtook him, was very much like magic.

 

*

 

Harry opened Ron’s letters first. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, back to the wardrobe, and caressed the parchment with his hand, tried inhaling its papery perfumes. He recognized the scent of Ron’s ink; it reminded Harry of History of Magic essays and it reminded him of Hermione.

 

Something large and clogging in his throat made it hard to swallow.

 

Tom was curiously silent. He always seemed to be when Harry mentioned his friends, mentioned how much he missed them.

 

 _“You’ll love them,”_ he’d told Tom earlier. Although Tom hadn’t made any real reply.

 

He pulled the first letter out of envelope which was marked in Ron’s scrawl with the date of writing. The first week of June, and the first week of the summer holidays. The contents made Harry laugh, the aching kind that made the thing in his throat thicken. Soon enough he’d read them all, read with smiles Ron’s growing concern at Harry’s lack of response.

 

**_Harry, I think there’s something wrong with Errol; you asked me why I haven’t responded to any of your letters, and I want to know why you haven’t responded to any of mine! I have got yours, you know. I spoke to mum; Percy might be getting a new owl if he does well in his Owls (funny I know) so I’ll try using it when he gets it. Because of course, Percy’s going to do well - he never leaves his room I tell you. I have to say, when we’re in fifth grade we are not going to act like him, Harry. We’ll have to keep watch on Hermione – I can just imagine her! But anyway, I’m gonna ask Hermione to send some of my letters to you – I’ll send this one to her, but if Errol’s been acting up, maybe this one will go missing too… Maybe I should make two copies._ **

****

_“A nice friend you have,”_ Tom commented, something sour making its way across their connection.

 

Harry had to choke on a sob. “I know. And I’d thought he’d forgotten all about me. Hermione too,” he looked at Hermione’s pile of letters, something full and heart-rendering filling up in his chest. “I was so afraid…”

 

The sourness seemed to depart then, but Tom was similarly silent as Harry read Hermione’s letters, being careful not to crease them even a little.

 

 _**I’m starting to really worry about you Harry;**_ Hermione’s third letter began, dated just a day ago. _**It’s like you’re not even receiving our letters! I’ve spoken to Ron, and he says the same. I really hope you’re not thinking we’ve forgotten about you. Did you get my birthday present? If you haven’t I will be so upset – we’ll have to see if something’s wrong with the owl service at your address in September if you haven’t gotten any of them. Your relatives are treating you all right I hope? And if you get this, please reply quickly!** _

 

“Oh Hermione,” Harry smiled as he read, the sharp relief of before fading into comfortable content. He’d been so quick to assume they’d forgotten him, so quick to blame them and make himself the victim. But in reality, he should have trusted them more. Should have known that Ron and Hermione would never abandon him, especially not after last year. They’d been through trolls and chess games, Professor Snape and the Dark Lord, illegal dragon smuggling and Draco Malfoy. A few months of absence shouldn’t be anything. But Harry had let it. Let it become more than it was too.

 

 _“I think you are being rather hard on yourself,”_ Tom commented. _“You have a great deal of trust in your friends. Of course, you were upset when you assumed they’d broken that trust.”_

_“You don’t understand,”_ Harry replied, carefully folding up Hermione’s letter and placing it onto the pile he’d formed. “ _I’m ashamed that I broke_ my _trust in them by not believing in them.”_

Tom seemed confused for a moment, and the flavor too was puzzling, an odd mixture of dirt and grass that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. “ _Not trusting is a form of breaking trust?”_

Harry smiled as he placed the bundle of letters carefully in a draw. _“Of course. And I’ll never do it again. At least not with Ron and Hermione. And you as well, I guess.”_

Tom didn’t reply.

 

*

 

For the next week, Harry didn’t do much other than practice calling upon his magic directly. After the first few days, Tom had him using it to do his chores even.

 

_“I used to… once. When I was your age.”_

That biting scent of rot and rust, and Harry didn’t ask for more.

 

Soon enough, he was even better at cleaning and dusting types of magic than he was at a wandless _lumos._ Harry thought this summarized his life very well.

 

Tom had him inserting exact amounts of magic into the gardens for greater growth, to better his magical control. This meant soon enough that wandless spells took less and less energy, as Harry wasted less of his magic.

As for the Dursleys, Aunt Petunia was becoming more and more frustrated as to how Harry was completing his chores so quickly. Quite frankly, she was running out of work for dear Harry.

 

And Harry had not foreseen just how much there was to practice! Tom had him tweaking his sphere of light, moving it around, changing its colour and shape, including height, width, length, brightness. Harry had to shrink it down to the size of a shilling, and then back up to the size of a balloon, over and over again in three-second intervals. But Harry was grateful for it. He was so sensitive to his magic now, could pluck at it with such ease and control. Harry was looking forward to using his wand as well. It felt too good to be true that he could bypass the Underage Magic restriction just without using it.

 

 _“It’s too rare to regulate,”_ Tom had told him. Tom had told Harry a lot of things. What Harry had learnt of most things, was that it came down to, not morality or justice or good or evil, but practicality. What was easy.

 

Harry thought this sounded very sensible. Tom agreed.

 

Finally, the day came to learn how to cast the Disillusionment Charm. Tom had told Harry to practice on himself first, as this way the magic had less distance to travel. Again, Harry thought what Tom had said was very sensible.

 

It wasn’t a particularly special day; it was one of those humid, summer days on which it rained every few hours. Uncle Vernon had long since driven to work, and Aunt Petunia had gone shopping, having dropped Dudley off at a friend’s house (it was mid-afternoon).

 

He began by standing in the center of his room, facing the door (which was closed, locked, and had the back of a chair underneath the door handle to prevent interruptions when his relatives inevitably arrived home).

 

 _“Feel your magic circulating,”_ Tom started. _“I want you to bring it to the surface of your skin. No gaps Harry. Let it spread thinly over yourself, every millimeter of it. Imagine it as a protective shield. It shields and hides you from attention.”_

Harry pulled the thin layer of his magic around himself as Tom had instructed. It felt like a fuzzy blanket, a little itchy, a hug and the air from an electric fan all at once. Harry thought that it was quite wonderful.

 

The next time he and Tom ‘trained’, as the latter named it, it was a Wednesday evening. Harry again pulled upon his magic and enfolded it around himself, felt the warmth of it sink into his bones. He could taste Tom’s pleasure at his success in the honey sweetness that arrived sharply on his tongue. _“Now this time, go downstairs and see if it worked.”_

Harry opened his bedroom door and walked downstairs to the living room. He had the silly urge to tiptoe or perhaps stamp loudly on each step, making the dust fall into the cupboard under the stairs like Dudley used to do to him. When he had lived in that darkness. It was exciting.

 

They won’t see you, Harry told himself. He could still feel the thin layer of magic coating his skin. He felt safe.

 

Harry reached the back of the couch, where Dudley was sitting, playing some sort of video game; loud gunshots emanated from the television, and on the screen, Harry could see blood splatters and large tanks shooting at civilians. He walked around the couch and sat next to his cousin. But the boy didn’t bat an eyelash.

 

Harry was quite sure that this lack of reaction was due to more than just the gory video game. He could feel Tom’s answering happiness too well.

 

 _“Now,”_ murmured Tom, _“go to the cupboard where your possessions are locked. Let us practice_ alohamora.”

Harry nodded, grinning.

 

*

 

That night Harry rose to a silent house. Straining his ears, he barely could make out the rackety snores of his uncle, but otherwise, there was stillness. Opening the door to his bedroom, he froze at the creak it made. Fighting off the rising sense of paranoia, he stepped forward into the corridor.

 

Harry had had a few midnight wanderings in the Dursleys’ home over the years, but they never ceased to make his heart rate quicken. Old Filch and detention in the dungeons with Snape was nothing compared to the fury of Aunt Petunia if she thought Harry had stolen food.

 

So far Tom had been silent, but at Harry’s growing fear, he felt a warm zap of something flowing up his spine. It was cold and tingly and filled him up with courage. Harry made his way down to the cupboard under the stairs, smiling.

 

He completely ignored the darkness, and the feeling of _trapped,_ the memories of time passing in years a second, the dizzying dance of shadows in a small space of his very real nightmares (and only that thin crack of light from under the door had saved him, only that and nothing else). Using a wandless _alohamora,_ he cast a Disillusionment Charm on both the trunk and the cupboard door. It was different, casting the charm on objects. He needed to create something like an invisibility cloak from his own magic, consciously separate it from himself and have it solidify into something he could leave alone. He did this then, crafted it carefully and lovingly, placed on his trunk with all the power he owned. Then, with Tom’s own strength to sustain the spell, the trunk was made feather light, to float up the stairs to his room.

 

Harry collapsed on the bed, utterly exhausted. But he was not done yet.

 

He rose from the bed and made his way over to his trunk, which was now sitting solidly under the window near Hedwig’s empty cage. The owl itself was soaring out yonder now, probably hunting for mice. Opening his trunk, Harry searched for his wand, beaming at the comfort he felt in clutching the smooth wood to his chest. Although he couldn’t use it just yet, the wand was precious to him. It meant something to have it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends - thank you thank you thank you! I'm so happy with the response to the last chapter. On another note, my laptop is fixed. Great news, isn't it? It means that I could edit Chapter 3 with some of the saved content on it, and now I can post Chapter 4. Hopefully, some of you enjoy it - comments, kudos, bookmarks are all lovingly received :) 
> 
> Also, it would be great if you could tell me if you see any mistakes, whether it be spelling, grammar, paragraphing, etc - I'll be sure to fix them. There are a few typos in the last chapter that I've been slowly fixing (when I can find them. I have this terrible habit of seeing them, clicking edit chapter, and forgetting where they are). 
> 
> I have also a question: are these chapters long enough? I like to write the chapters using a few scenes to bring them together (so they're not just a collection of random happenings) but it's something I have been a little concerned about. Especially when I think about how much plot I have left to go through - there are going to be, eventually, quite a lot of chapters.


	5. Ginny's Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the title speaks for itself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some basic dialogue and more extended descriptions taken from J.K Rowling's Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 3 & 4.  
> Also, I don't own Harry Potter. Obviously.

The following weeks flashed by in what felt like minutes. With his possessions safely restored to Harry, he managed to complete all his schoolwork. When he mentioned this in his letter to Hermione (having responded to the ones Dobby had stolen), the resulting excitement and praise he’d received back had made him laugh ( _never mind he’d been half-terrified she wouldn’t reply. Stupid. Stupid.)._ As for Ron, Harry had finished the brownies -- Mrs Weasley had made him another batch since he didn’t get the first one -- with utter glee. They were after all possibly the best birthday present for a Dursley victim. Tom had enjoyed them too, but Harry left that out in his correspondence.

 

It wasn’t long before Harry’s Hogwarts letter arrived. He’d managed to snag a ride with Uncle Vernon on his way to work, and was dropped off a few streets from the Leaky Cauldron (Uncle Vernon had believed Harry would have miles to walk and had been very pleased with the idea. Harry wisely, had kept his mouth shut.) To Harry’s amusement, Tom had absorbed the sights with something like awe.

 

 _“Look how much the world has changed,”_ his companion murmured, as Harry glanced at the incoming traffic. A billboard advertising Women’s Deodorant seemed to catch his interest as well as the large yellow M in front of McDonalds. At the strange sights, Harry could feel Tom’s awe, the confusion, and what was most startling, his sense of displacement.

 

Instantly, Harry felt contrite. “ _I_ am _sorry for that,”_ he replied, trying his best to convey his sincerity. _“I know you don’t remember how you were trapped, but you must have had a life, friends, family… Did you go to Hogwarts too?”_

At his words, there was a curious shift in Tom’s mental movements, and suddenly there was that shield between them again, that was as uncomfortable as it was unexpected. All the tastes and scents that Harry had been taking for granted vanished as if they’d never been there. He should have expected it however. Tom’s wall had a terrible habit of appearing at the most inane of questions.

 

 _“Yes,”_ answered Tom. His tone, despite not technically sounding, was somehow flat. “ _You are correct. But that life is over. I have no doubt my… acquaintances think me dead. And I did go to Hogwarts. I was in Slytherin.”_

Harry nodded, somewhat mournfully as he turned into the doorway of the Leaky Cauldron. He hadn’t meant to receive such a response. It was sad, and made Harry feel as angry as he felt guilty. He wanted to help his friend, and had no idea of how to do so. But Tom’s last words did catch his interest.

 

 _“You did go to Hogwarts? Had you graduated? Maybe you remember some of the teachers. There’s Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Snape but he’s evil you wouldn’t want to know him… um… oh Professor Dumbledore of course.”_ And on Harry’s tangent went, right up until they reached _Flourish and Blotts_. _“…Professor Binns, and the Gameskeeper, Hagrid, he’s great really, but a bit odd. He smuggled in dragons last year you know. We had to help him! Hmm, who else?”_

And underpinning it all was Tom’s amusement, which was itself underlain by heavy frustration. Harry didn’t notice that though. In his mind, the slightly rotten sweetness put forth by Tom was far superior to the _nothingness_ of before.

 

There were quite a few people in the bookstore. Apparently the day before, a famous wizard named Gilderoy Lockhart had been giving book signings. Harry stared uncertainly at the pile of books the man had set for Defense this year. They were all by Lockhart himself and pictured a smiling, blonde waving dashingly at the camera.

 

Tom expressed similar doubt. _“You might consider supplementing your Defense lessons this year with some of your own reading. I doubt these will be helpful.”_

Harry nodded, heading into a deeper section of the bookstore. He passed a shelf containing too many books to choose from, and overwhelmed, turned to Tom for guidance.

 

 _“I suggest you start with ‘A Beginner’s Guide to Defense Magic’, by Terity Truman. That won’t be in the Hogwarts library. And you could buy the Intermediate one too, to last the year.”_ Harry grinned as he grabbed the aforementioned books; the idea of learning more magic, defense magic in particular, appealed to him.

 

 _“Thank you,”_ murmured Harry, moving off to find his charms textbook. _“I really do need to work on my Defense Against the Dark Arts. I would have died last year if not for getting lucky. Voldemort (_ his chalky, reptilian face screaming ‘KILL HIM! KILL HIM! _) will really want to kill me now.”_

And again there was that wall between them, that sense of strain, and such a loss of connection it made Harry’s head swim.

_“I am very sorry to hear that,”_ said Tom at last, and what surprised Harry was that he _sounded_ sorry. As if he’d really done something wrong and was actually repentant, actually worried that he wouldn’t be forgiven. As if Harry could ever be angry with _Tom._ And there was something leaking past the wall, something that felt like rage and hollowness and emptiness, something shadowy and dark and… was that sadness?

 

It terrified Harry. The leak of shadowy _things_ abruptly stopped. A short silence between them as Harry carried his books to the counter. He glanced at his almost empty purse of coins.

 

Ignoring what had happened (because what _had_ happened?), Harry stepped out onto Diagon Alley.

 

“We’re going to have to go to Gringotts,” he muttered softly so as not to be heard. He didn’t want to speak mentally at this moment, not after before.

 

The twelve-year-old began walking immediately, grateful that Hagrid had shown him the way last year. A similar thought seemed to occur to Tom. _“How did you get your supplies last year?”_

Harry smiled, remembering ‘ _Harry – yer a wizard’,_ and the sight of Hedwig, the snowy white vision of her outside the window of _Ollivanders_ for the first time. His first real birthday present. _“_ The Dursleys took it off me – my letter that is. It said the cupboard under the stairs" ( _trapped, trapped, trapped) "_ on the front, so they were of course, terrified. That’s how I got my bedroom, but I already told you that, yes? But the letters continued to arrive, through the fireplace even after Uncle Vernon boarded up the letterbox. Eventually, he sort of… broke, and took us all to this remote island in the middle of nowhere.” He still could hear Dudley’s cries of hunger, the complaints about his missed television show, the taste of over-ripe banana and the crinkly sound of the crisp packets his Uncle had found. “But Hagrid… He saved me. He gave me a birthday cake and everything my very first” (with green writing on it that said ‘ _Happy Birthday Harry’_ and he’d never, ever got that before) “because it was my eleventh birthday you see. And he told me, he said ‘Harry - yer a wizard!’”

 

Tom was curiously enough, utterly silent as they strolled along down toward Gringotts. Harry continued.

 

“Hagrid was my first friend, you know. He took me to Diagon Alley and gave me my ticket to Platform 9¾ at Kings Cross. Now wasn’t that an adventure – did you have trouble walking through the wall the very first time?” He could still hear Mrs Weasley’s voice _‘packed with muggles – of course’,_ picture Ron’s shocked face: ‘ _Are you really Harry Potter?’_

 

Tom was quiet still, though Harry sensed acknowledgment of his words. There were too those conflicting flavors again, of peppermint and lime and metal and honey now too. Fondness? But it was all walled off before Harry could investigate further. They continued their shopping and managed to finish before Uncle Vernon pulled over on the corner of where Harry had been dropped off earlier. Harry practically leaped off the pavement into the car, fearing that if he were too slow, Uncle Vernon would simply drive off without him.

 

“You better be grateful for this, boy,” his Uncle scowled at him through the rearview mirror.

 

Harry simply nodded. He was too tired to be punished for talking back. “Yes, Uncle Vernon. Thank you.”

 

Tom’s scoffing was loud and exclamatory. “ _The least he could do is call you by your name. You're a wizard – much superior to this pathetic muggle. A parasite,”_

Harry pressed his forehead against the glass of the window. “ _I guess you’re right. But not all muggles are bad. I just wish I had people like Hermione’s parents.”_

Tom seemed to leap up in retaliation. “ _So you’re fine letting this go on? Letting these muggles walk all over you.”_

“No,” murmured Harry against the window, too quiet to be heard by Uncle Vernon. “ _When I’m of age I’ll escape and never see them again. I just have to be patient. But I’m sure the same happens in Wizarding society. Voldemort’s proof of that – cruelty exists everywhere.”_

_“What do_ you _know of Lord Voldemort?”_ Tom’s voice seemed to quiver with something, and suddenly Harry was awash with the feeling. It was anger but it wasn’t, it was terror but it wasn’t, it was something hurt and wounded and Harry trembled with it. “ _You compare these muggles to the most powerful wizard of our age?”_

Harry cringed, leaning back into his seat from shock. The heat and the radiating furious _something_ abruptly vanished. “ _Yes,”_ he whispered, almost too quiet to be heard by Tom. He hardly pushed the thought out at all to his companion. What had that been? Why had Tom become so very… angry? “ _Of all the people in the world I’ve met, he and my relatives are the only ones that call me ‘boy’ instead of my name.”_

Such utter silence as to be emptiness and Harry was afraid that Tom had vanished with the quiet of it all, back into the darkness, the inner cells of his mind. But something like a long breath sounded, and Harry knew that Tom was there. But he was hidden, very far away, had made the wall into something like a fortress and remained inside, untouchable. Uncle Vernon parked the car at Privet Drive soon enough, and Harry made sure to carry his shopping into his room. The cupboard under the stairs was still Disallusioned, and so his relatives wouldn’t think to use it now – not for Harry, and not for his things. But Tom still hadn’t reappeared, and Harry was starting to feel afraid, starting to fear he’d messed it all up somehow and that Tom would never speak to him again. The feeling became so strong as he raced up into his room, that his hands started shaking, his fingers tapping out relentless beats on his thighs and he paced. Paced around his room like a fish stuck in a bowl, and Harry was alone again.

 

Not so alone. He padded over to Hedwig’s cage where the Snowy Owl sat sleeping, head tucked securely into her wing. Harry wished it were nighttime so that he could stroke her softly, feathered head, so that she could nip him on the finger. He would laugh every time, exhale, say “Why do you always do that?” And if an owl could smirk that’s what Hedwig would be doing, his very second friend in the whole wide world. Hagrid had been the first.

 

Harry lay down on his bed then, face against his pillows and eyes tightly shut. He didn’t want to think that Tom had abandoned him. All this time he’d believed that Tom had from escaped the darkness to Harry, but in reality, Harry needed the man far more than Tom needed Harry. He’d been taught wandless magic even so that he could steal his school things back from the Dursleys, and at every step of the way, Tom had been there to encourage Harry, to help him, to prevent him from believing the insults of his relatives.

 

“You’re not gone forever, are you?” Harry whispered into the bedsheets.

 

There was no reply.

 

*

 

_It is one thing to be alone in the darkness, but it is another to hide in it. To claw at it like it’s a gentle thing that seeks to hold you and protect you. But that is a lie. It seeks to hold you and chain you to it, enough so that when you run from the light and look back, it is almost destroyed. Fluttering, weak and helpless against the strain of the shadows you’ve run to. Gone to willingly. And as you gaze back at that shrinking light, you know that it could be for the last time. You will be hidden again, in the darkness that holds and binds you to it so that you may never escape._

_You wonder. Have you come here to hide from what the light makes you see? You prefer to be blinded from the memories of the past. Burying your memories in shadow and darkness until all you are is smoke. Trembling._

_You claw. You run. Before that light flickers out forever. Before you are **entombed.**_

 

 

*

 

Tom reappeared sometime before midnight. Harry gasped at the sensation as if all the warmth and safety in the world had been made into a blanket just for him. He was utterly enveloped by it, and then Tom’s regret was seeping into his blood, his apologies and now his assurances. “ _Sorry, sorry, sorry,”_ were the continued murmurs Harry heard and he couldn’t move at the utter awe of it all.

 

 _“I’d thought you were gone forever,”_ Harry whispered, still afraid and _lonely,_ but Tom knew all that, and Harry knew how sorry Tom was, felt it all as if it were his own guilt and grief. It was too much for this one deed, too much, and Harry couldn't understand why.

 

And Tom was comforting _Harry,_ saying “ _I won’t do that again, I’m sorry,”_ and “ _I wouldn’t leave you all alone”,_ and “ _I know what it feels like and I did it to you, forgive me.”_ Saying “ _It was all darkness without you.”_ And it was too much. The man was too sorry for this small absence, and so Harry comforted Tom then.

 

He said, “ _It’s alright.”_ He said, “ _You didn’t do it on purpose, I know.”_ And he said, “ _You were alone for much longer.”_

They both quieted down eventually. Both more lucid and calm. Regret was a small thing that swam in Harry’s bloodstream, but more still was the warmth and the comfort and the contentment.

 

Finally, _“I don’t believe that,”_ Tom whispered.

 

“ _Don’t believe what?”_ Harry mumbled, almost lulled to sleep by now.

 

_“You were alone for as long as me. And it wasn’t your choice.”_

_“Wasn’t your choice either,”_ Harry replied, sinking deeper into sleep.

 

“ _But it was my fault.”_

 

But Harry was already asleep.

 

 

*

 

The day of August 31st, the Weasleys came to collect him. Harry was relieved; he’d been worried about the Dursleys driving him to Kings Cross – or rather, there _not_ driving him.

 

“Harry!” Ron shouted when Harry opened the front door. He pulled the boy into a hug. “We've been so worried about you. When you didn’t answer any of my letters… The twins and I were going to get you in case they’d locked you up or something!”

 

Harry couldn’t not smile, looking at his freckled friend. “I’m so glad you came,” he replied more softly, looking past Ron up into the kind face of whom he assumed was Mrs Weasley. His entire being seemed to be filling up with light and warmth, such that he overflowed with it and had to pour it into Tom’s space of his mind.

 

“ _This is what friendship is,”_ he murmured and smiled and laughed.

 

“Lovely to meet you Harry!” the witch pulled him into a tight hug. She was a short, plump, kind-faced woman with the same hair as her offspring. “Goodness, you’re all skin and bones!” Mrs Weasley leaned back to look at him. Harry smiled at her weakly. “Ron, make sure he eats at Hogwarts,” the matriarch looked at her son pointedly, and Tom was laughing, tinkling bells that could not be heard, saying teasingly “ _Well friendship seems rather dull.”_

 

The noise finally drew Uncle Vernon to the front door. Harry’s uncle had been in the midst of demanding why a door-to-door salesperson was taking so bloody long, and why Harry had opened the door at all, when he caught sight of Mrs Weasley. His face promptly turned the colour of a plum.

 

“Get back!” he yelled, shooing at the witch like she was some sort of pest. “I won’t have any more of you lot in my house.” 

 

Mrs Weasley’s own face turned an alarming shade of tomato. “Why - I never! Get your things Harry dear, and we’ll be gone in a jiffy. Hopefully less.”

 

Ron was glancing anxiously at the furious muggle, and Harry quickly did as he was told, sliding his trunk down the stairs with Hedwig’s cage in his other hand. Fortunately, Uncle Vernon was too incensed to wonder why he had the trunk. The snowy owl hooted rather rudely at Dudley and Aunt Petunia, who were watching from behind the kitchen door

 

Mrs Weasley herself was silent, wordlessly leading Harry to a bright blue Ford Anglia that was parked on the street. At the driving wheel sat Mr Weasley, who was just as freckled and ginger as the rest of his brood, although his hair was beginning to thin. The man introduced himself eagerly, before asking Harry too many questions to count. He hadn’t heard the exchange between Uncle Vernon and Mrs Weasley.

 

“What exactly, is the purpose of a rubber ducky?”

 

Tom’s confused disgust made Harry stifle a laugh, and it became harder not to at Mr Weasley’s obvious disappointment at Harry’s explanation. Finally Ron sidled in beside Harry, smiling at him uncertainly (still upset about Uncle Vernon, _honestly)_ and Mrs Weasley banned such questions.

 

When they finally reached the Weasley’s home, Harry was sure he’d never smiled more, and as he could attest to, he’d been doing more of it in the past few weeks. Stepping out of the Ford Anglia, he gazed at the house in awe. It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which, Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, ‘THE BURROW’. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.

 

Harry couldn’t stop smiling; his cheeks hurt with the force of it as he simply stared. Ron, who walked beside him to the doorway shrugged his shoulders at Harry.

 

“Mum’s been crazy the past few days. Cleaning and tidying; we’re going to share a room. Is that alright with you?”

 

Harry nodded vacantly, looking around wildly as they walked inside. The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat; he had never been in a wizard house before.

 

Harry too could taste the telling flavour of caramel, hinting at Tom’s own curiosity. “ _This is_ not _your average wizarding family home,”_ Tom said at Harry’s questioning thoughts.

 

Harry only shook his head. He could kind of tell already.

 

There was a clock on the wall opposite him that had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You’re late. Books were stacked three tomes deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like _Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking,_ and _One Minute Feasts — It’s Magic!._ And unless Harry’s ears were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.”

 

  _“They must be very poor,”_ said Tom, misunderstanding Harry’s reaction. _“The name Weasley doesn’t sound familiar… I’m assuming they’re purebloods but… All Gryffindor?”_

Harry was too busy running his fingers over the furniture to answer him right away. “ _Yes. And they’re the best family in all of Britain! Though I haven't met Hermione's parents yet."_

Harry was then invited to go de-gnoming with Ron and the twins. It was amazing fun, although Tom had been disdainful at first. He’d relented when a gnome (small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head looking exactly like a potato) had latched on Harry’s thumb; he spun it around so quickly that he became dizzy. He stumbled, giggling, the laughter infectious, for Tom felt everything that Harry did. And all the disdain disappeared like it had never been.

 

“Wow Harry!” exclaimed Fred. Or George. “That must have been fifty feet!”

 

The afternoon went very quickly then; the air was thick with flying gnomes. Tom had never been de-gnoming he said; the Wizarding families he’d visited hadn’t had gnome problems apparently.

 

“ _But it's so much fun!”_ muttered Harry as he threw a gnome several meters away from the yard.

 

Tom hadn’t disagreed.

 

At the sight of the magical abode, he had felt a strange tightness in his chest. The feeling only increased upon seeing the gigantic feast Mrs Weasley had prepared for him, and after receiving the warm greetings of the twins (and Ginny, although hers was a little quieter). It was wonderful when Mr Weasley wanted Harry to sit next to him at dinner, so that he could bombard him with questions about life with Muggles, asking him to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked.

 

“Fascinating!” he had said as Harry talked him through using a telephone, much to Tom’s incredulity. “Ingenious, really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting along without magic.”

 

“ _Is this man for real?”_ Tom had asked, his normally formal register sinking into casualness due to his disbelief.

 

Harry had mentally shrugged, a small curve to his lips that attested to his thoughts. “ _I think so. But it’s kind of brilliant, isn’t it?”_

 

And something inside Harry clenched painfully at Ron’s words to him that evening, as he lay in the bed opposite in Ron’s bedroom.

 

Tom hated Ron’s bedroom actually. He apparently had a fierce aversion to the colour orange, for some strange reason that Harry didn’t fully understand. And Ron’s room was… well. Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to be a violent shade of Tom’s most despised hue: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.

 

“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry.

 

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.”

 

“ _Quidditch,”_ snorted Tom. “ _Please tell me you don’t play it, Harry.”_

As a reply, he sent Tom an image of last year’s fifty-foot dive when he’d almost swallowed the snitch.

 

Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sun.

 

“It’s not much,” Ron said, gazing down at his lap. “But it’s home.” There was a distinctly nervous undertone in his voice.

 

“ _He doesn’t understand,”_ Harry realized. “ _Tom, he has all of this and he doesn’t even know. “_

Tom seemed to understand, despite his aversion to Ron’s taste in aesthetics. In fact, he radiated the feeling. “ _The students around me when I attended Hogwarts were much the same. It is difficult to imagine life without family or a home – they take it for granted.”_ He didn’t mention how he would know.

 

Harry didn’t question him. Instead, he smiled at Ron, and said, “It’s the first home I’ve ever been in.”

 

His friend turned a deep shade of red.

 

“It’s brilliant," Harry added.

 

They went to sleep then; Ron was quiet.

 

*

 

The next morning was chaotic, to say the least. A short breakfast, and last minute preparations before they all bundled into the Ford Anglia, sides touching, elbows and knees getting in the way, and all over that, a cacophony of Weasley voices, shouting and yelling and laughing (though that was mostly Fred and George). Mrs. Weasley had dashed about in a bad mood all morning looking for spare socks and quills; people had kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley had nearly broken his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.

 

Tom had found it all very absurdly funny. Harry loved it.

 

 Harry hadn’t see how eight people, six large trunks, two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. He had reckoned, of course, without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added. “Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Harry as he opened the trunk and showed him how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily.

 

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?” She and Ginny got into the front seat, which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?”

 

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, Harry turning back for a last look at the house. He barely had time to wonder when he’d see it again when they were back — George had forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked that she’d left her diary. By the time she had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high

  

He hadn’t managed to speak to Ginny much. The girl had stared at her lap all through the wondrous dinner Harry had experienced (this was other than the brief stares she’d directed his way). Tom seemed to find it distinctly amusing, much to Harry’s annoyance. Yet now, as he returned to the car to squeeze in next to Ron, all annoyance was forgotten. Harry stared as if in a trance at the little black book nestled tightly in her hands. 

The book itself seemed nothing special. But it called to Harry with such a pull, he heard himself distantly wonder how he was still sitting in his seat with his seatbelt buckled on tightly. Little strands of electricity seemed to spark down his veins to his fingers, which itched with the urge to grab the book. Ginny’s diary held a warmth to it that was distinctly _Tom._ He wanted it.

 

Tom’s voice startled Harry out of his trance. _“No, it can’t be.”_ The voice was thick with dread, and Harry’s mouth was suddenly full of rusty, metallic saliva, and the taste of rotten fruit, of salted fish, of wet dog. It was foul. Like Harry, Tom’s focus appeared to be singularly on Ginny’s little diary.

 

 _“Harry,”_ Tom murmured. _“Do you care for that girl? Would you mind if she died?”_

“What!” Harry sat up, ignoring Ron’s bemused stare. “ _What do you mean? Of course I’d mind. I’d mind if anyone died.”_

 

A kind of bitter laughter swelled up from his friend. _“Oh Harry….”_ he was whispered to, wondered why goose bumps arose on his arms. _“You are too good.”_ And again, there it was, that same fondness, that hint of golden honey streaked with the hot iron of anger. But not at Harry, it seemed. _“If you really care about this girl’s life, you must get that diary off her. It’s very important Harry.”_

_“But what’s wrong with that diary?”_ Harry insisted, remembering now to keep silent vocally. _“What could it do to her?”_

Tom hesitated – Harry could sense his indecision. He tried to send a small wave of calmness over to his friend, like Tom had done for him when he’d been so afraid at the Dursleys, but this only served to make Tom laugh. There was a hollow ring to the sound now.

_“That book…”_ Tom finally began, “ _is like me.”_

A silence while Harry waited, broken by the laughter of the twins and Ron’s fight with Percy while Ginny stared out the window (on Harry’s side), and Mrs Weasley scolded her husband about… flying cars? It all sounded so far away.

 

_“That book… has a piece of myself trapped inside, like I am trapped inside your mind. It has been there for fifty years. It is… very dangerous, Harry you must understand. It was created with a terrible purpose in mind that you must be wary of.”_

And Harry listened horrified, wondered who could ever do such a horrible thing. Because all he could imagine was _trapped, trapped, trapped,_ and all he could see was _swirling, spinning shadows on his eyelids_ and where had the light gone? Where had the sound of laughter and talking and scolding gone? Because that breathing it sounded not of him _alien_ and he wondered _is it possible to drown_ _in emptiness in silence_ wondered what it would do to him this place this never-ending prison of darkness and gloom where no light could pierce dust falls from the ceiling. There are sounds now, the sound of _thump, thump, thump_ as Dudley jumps down the stairs. It is annoying, the dust, having to live in this cupboard under the stairs. Sometimes he actually wonders, _what if I never leave?_ He doesn’t want to be _trapped_ in here forever, and-

 

_“HARRY!”_

“Harry?”

 

Ron was staring at him, pale-faced and freckled, and Mrs Weasley had just told George to stop throwing sweet wrappers at Percy. Or was it Fred?

 

“Did you say fifty years?” he asked.

 

“What?” Ron scrunched his nose. “No. Are you okay, mate? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

 _  
“Yes, I did say fifty years. You are not all right, Harry. I apologize; I should not have told you what I did,”_ Tom murmured gently to him. “ _My thoughts ran away with me.”_

 

“No please I’m alright! Don’t worry, really Ron.”

 

Not Ron. “ _Tom.”_

A hesitation on both their parts.

 

 _“_ Really, I’m fine.”

 

Because he needed Tom to _“Tell me more.” And_ he recognized that shadowy memory – he wanted to say _Was that yours?_ But he didn’t. He never wanted to think of it again.

_“_ All right Harry. But maybe you should take a nap or something,” said Ron. His brow was creased in concern.

 

“Good idea,” Harry smiled, wavering but bright.

 

Tom sighed. _“You don’t take care of yourself very well, do you? Are you sure? I was… concerned.”_

Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. His pulse was racing, he could hear it in his ears. Thud, thud, thud, like the thumping of Dudley on top of his cupboard under the stairs. It had always got dusty then. _“It’s fine. I’m fine. So do you mean to say, that a person stole bits of you and put them in things? Like me and that book? But why? Who would do that to you, Tom? It’s…”_ he thought of a word worthy of Hermione (stop thinking about dust, Harry). _“It’s barbaric, that’s what it is. We need to free whatever is in the diary. It must be so_ lonely, _Tom.”_

Another laugh. Harry hated it. It sounded so broken.

 

_“You don’t want to do that, Harry. It is dangerous. To free the diary requires a life, and it would try to take it from the girl of yours. Would you like it to kill her, so that it could return to the world of the living again? It must be destroyed Harry. I do not want it hurting you.”_

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Opening his eyes just a smidgen, he glanced again at the little black book in Ginny’s hand. Felt the urge to claw it away from her all the way to his toes. Wanted to scratch her face and take it from her. Wanted to hold it and stroke it’s spine, wanted to protect it from being _trapped, trapped, trapped,_ and the dust. It must get dusty after fifty years. He had to protect it – Ginny was in the way too. How could he get rid of her-

 

“Feeling a little better?” Ginny asked shyly, turning to him with a small smile on her face and Harry blanched. “You were looking really pale before, but you look a little more alive now.”

 

He nodded. Nodded wildly. “Oh yes, yes. I feel _loads_ better.”

 

Harry could believe suddenly that the diary would kill her if it could. Felt wariness overtake him and closed his eyes, scrunched them so they’d be _trapped_ shut and tried to forget the image of the little black book. It had branded itself to his eyelids, like the shadows.

 

 _“Okay,”_ Harry replied to Tom. _“All right.”_

The long silence hadn’t gone unnoticed by Ron or the twins however. They pulled him into a lively conversation about the Chudley Canon’s new chaser. But every now and then, he’d glance back at the diary, clutched tightly to Ginny’s side, entranced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings friends. Look - some plot! And stream of consciousness. I have a habit of that sometimes, sorry. This chapter IS longer; I hope you enjoyed it! And did you know that Quidditch is actually a word?  
> My spellchecker approves of it. Rowling made a word that online dictionaries use. And not the urban dictionary. How cool is that? 
> 
> Comments, kudos are always appreciated. And I want to say thank you for the comments already given. Ah - they are like... So gorgeous whenever they pop up in my inbox. And the kudos as well.  
> Until next time.
> 
> Ps. If you see any mistakes, don't hesitate to let me know!


	6. Return to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some of the early dialogue and description are taken from J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Chapter 5.

It was when he and Ron moved toward the barrier at Kings Cross Station that it happened. They were walking over to the wall between Platforms 9 and 10 hardly glancing at it: it was like it did not exist,  and in reality,  it was a little bit like this.  Logically, one can ignore something they know one can walk through (like a doorway or the very air). So of course the shock when their trolleys bounced off the wall instead of sliding through cleanly was rather large. In fact, they were sent flying back, and Hedwig’s cage and other luggage slid off the fallen trolleys. The sound of clutter and shrieking of Hedwig drew shouts, and all was blank noise and confusion. Harry fell to the ground some meters away from the wall, after the force of the fallen trolley had pushed him back. He sat up and rubbed his head.

 

 _“That hurt, Harry! ”_ he heard Tom complain mulishly. It only added to the feeling of chaos however. Harry glanced around, feeling vague and absent minded and by Merlin his head hurt. He saw some muggles looking at him and Ron strangely, before hurrying away.

 

A guard yelled, “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?”

 

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it and tried to think up some response that wouldn’t be utterly absurd.  “Lost control of the trolley,” he ended up gasping, clutching his ribs as he stood up. Panting, Harry looked over at Ron. The redhead had run to pick up Hedwig’s cage. The owl was causing such a scene that there was some muttering about animal cruelty from the now thinning crowd.

 

“ _What_ was _that?”_ Harry asked, feeling utterly bewildered. He turned back to the brick wall, somewhat overcome by the force of both his own confusion, and Tom’s.

 

“ _Better check the barrier,”_ Tom murmured back. Leaving Ron to placate the angry guard and right their fallen trolleys, Harry walked over to the wall, behind which he knew lay Platform 9¾s and the Hogwarts Express. He lay his hands on the rough surface, and began to feel an anxious feeling build up in his stomach. The barrier was blocked.

 

“ _Stop that,”_ Tom hissed at him. _“I can’t think if you’re worried. Calm down.”_

 

“Is something wrong with the barrier?” Ron walked over to Harry, who was staring at the barrier numbly. He nodded.

 

His friend’s face paled, making his freckles stand out even more. Ron looked around wildly. “We’re going to miss the train.”

 

Harry looked up at the giant clock with that same sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as before. It had only gotten worse, and was beginning to rise up to his throat. His mouth felt dry as he saw the time tick by.  Ten seconds… nine seconds…

 

 _“Try again!”_ exclaimed Tom urgently. “ _And_ please… _I can’t… just calm down, alright?”_ So again Harry lay his hands on the barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid.

 

“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned. “What if Mum and Dad can’t get back to us? Have you got any muggle money?”’ Harry laughed at the very idea. He didn’t bother to respond. What could they do? Just wait? But what if Ron were right? What if everyone was trapped there, stuck on Platform 9¾s forever?

 

“ _Harry,”_ Tom’s voice cut into his spiraling thoughts. “ _That’s not going to happen, alright? You have an owl - you can send for help. I would suggest_ waiting _for a bit, to see if someone_ can _pass back through. Just… just, breathe, alright? Breathe.”_

 

Harry nodded, and went to sit down by the barrier, ready to do just that. But suddenly there was a pop beside him, and Harry glanced down in shock to see what appeared to be a very angry house elf. Ron gave a small yelp, jumping back a foot.

 

“Do you know this house elf, Harry?” he asked, looking around at the passing muggles in consternation.

 

The house elf in question was standing in front of the barrier, staring at Harry in the way one might if their best friend had been murdered… by their other best friend. Utter betrayal and misery were apt descriptions for Dobby’s expression at that moment.

 

“ _Well I think we know the cause now,”_ Tom muttered, and absurdly Harry felt the urge to laugh.

 

I’m hysterical, he thought. It’s just Dobby.

 

“Harry Potter promised Dobby that Harry Potter wouldn’t go to Hogwarts. Harry Potter promised!” Dobby cried, the definition of betrayed in his very voice.

 

“What?” said Ron, bewildered. “Did you really promise _that,_ Harry?”

 

“ _It wasn’t such a terrible idea to say yes,”_ Tom defended himself. Harry could only tell his friend was embarrassed by the rising heat he could feel in his cheeks.

 

“Terrible things are happening at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!” Dobby continued, pointing his finger up at the ceiling of the station. “Dobby knows! So why doesn’t Harry Potter believe Dobby, sir?”

 

Harry stared blankly at the betrayed elf, before some remnant of remorse started filling up his chest. _“Tom!”_ he hissed mentally. _“Tom, what do I do? Help me!”_

 

 _“Harry,”_ his friend murmured back to him. His voice was strained, and Harry’s mouth had become even drier. “ _I would, but could you stop feeling that please? I’d much prefer it if you were happy or something similar. Please become hysterical again.”_

 

Harry looked back at Dobby, who was gazing back at him, hurt in his large green eyes. If anything, he felt guilty.

 

“ _Merlin,”_ Tom exclaimed. “ _That is_ not _pleasant. What_ is that?”

 

Harry didn’t reply. “I _do_ believe you, Dobby,” he tried to defend himself to the house elf. Dobby was abruptly silenced, staring at Harry Potter with wide eyes. His arm was still held listlessly in the air, and it wavered slightly, as if wondering whether to fall or not. “It’s just… I don’t know what this danger is, and I can’t _not_ go to Hogwarts.”

 

Tom had had an epiphany. Harry could taste it in the sudden spark he felt, something that actually was akin to a lightbulb turning itself on in his stomach.

 

" _Ask about the diary,”_ murmured his friend, curious and caramel.  “ _I wonder…”_

 

“Dobby,” Harry began again. “Dobby, does this have anything to do with a diary?”

 

Dobby’s huge, green eyes widened (though Harry couldn’t understand how that was still achievable. They were rather wide already). “Harry Potter is a great and terrible wizard, sir!” Dobby exclaimed in a loud whisper. “Harry Potter, sir knows about the Master’s diary.”

 

“Harry?” said Ron, looking a little put out now. “What is going on here? Does this house elf have something to do with the barrier? Now listen here you little-”

 

 _“Ask the elf,”_ murmured Tom distantly, _“if his Master is Lucius Malfoy?”_

 

Harry’s own eyes widened. _“Is he the one who_ trapped-“

 

 _“No.”_ Tom did not elaborate.

 

“Is your Master a man named Lucius Malfoy?”

 

Dobby gave a little gasp, before shuddering. The house elf looked around himself desperately, saw the brick barrier and began banging his head on it. “Dobby has been a bad elf! A very bad elf! “ No one, not even a single muggle, seemed to notice.

 

“Stop Dobby!” Harry cried. Ron was staring at Dobby as if he were insane.

 

“Sorry,” the Weasley muttered, looking chastened. “I didn’t mean to stir him up like that,” he gestured to Dobby weakly, looking a bit pale.

 

 _“I don’t think his punishing himself is so bad,”_ Tom mumbled, mild irritation filling up Harry like the chafing of a sunburn. “ _He’s a very annoying elf, Harry,”_ the man continued sulkily.

 

“Dobby!” Harry repeated, ignoring the both of them. “I think I can… that is I know how to stop the diary,” he said. “But I have to get to Hogwarts first, and now we’ve missed the train.”

 

Dobby stopped banging his head, and turned to look at Harry dejectedly, great big eyes seeming to fill with tears. “Harry Potter and his friend have missed the train. And Harry Potter can - that is he can stop – but Dobby blocked the barrier!” The little house elf’s bottom lip began to tremble, and Dobby looked at the barrier miserably, as if it contained every horrible answer to the world’s big questions.

 

“Yes, yes that’s right Dobby,” Harry nodded eagerly. “Do you think you can get us to Hogwarts?

 

But suddenly Tom’s voice emerged again, calm and logical, all sulkiness vanished. _“Ask him to wipe the Weasley boy’s memory.”_

 

 _“_ What?” Harry was shocked enough to exclaim out loud.

 

 _“He cannot know of the diary,”_ Tom explained, sounding drained. Harry could not blame him.

 

“And…” Harry hesitated, glancing at Ron’s bewildered expression. “Wipe Ron’s memory. He ignored his friend’s outraged splutter. “Please. Just wipe his memory, get us on the train and I’ll stop the terrible things at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and- er… at school.”

 

Dobby was floored. He had ceased to gaze at the brick barrier in fear, and had now begun to gape widely at Harry as if he was a celebrity (though technically he was) that had just banned house elf abuse (including a salary, sick leave and superannuation). “Harry Potter is a great and noble wizard, sir!” the elf murmured shakily, smiling tremulously. So with a sharp click of his fingers, the two boys vanished, reappearing in an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Ron sneezed, and looked at Harry with a frown.

 

“Harry… what were we just doing again?”

 

Almost immediately Hermione, recognizable by her bushy brown hair, burst into their compartment, already dressed in her black robes, and wearing her witch’s hat. “Oh where have you two _been?”_ She didn’t quite yell, before hugging them both tightly. “I’ve spent _ages_ looking for you two. _Honestly…”_ She stepped back with a smile, before settling down onto a seat beside the window.

 

“ _Oh Salazar it’s the mud- muggle born,”_ a whisper crossed his mind, and exhaustion seeped through his bloodstream as if some terrible disease had befallen him.

 

Harry tried to ignore Ron’s look of befuddlement. It wouldn't be kind to laugh, surely? The exhaustion had faded as suddenly as it had appeared; Tom had put up that annoying wall again, although if he wanted a rest Harry supposed it was his right.  So he sat down opposite Hermione, grinning. “It’s good to see you too, Hermione.”

 

*

The feast that night in the Great Hall was terribly confusing. Tom, much like he had a great abhorrence to Ron’s room ( _“based on aesthetic principles, Harry. Don’t tell me_ you _like all this orange-”),_ had some sort of terrible phobia about sitting at the Gryffindor table. Harry supposed he could understand this. He imagined that if he were trapped inside a random Slytherin student’s brain and had to sit at the Slytherin table, play Quidditch for the Slytherin team and so on, he would be rather twitchy too. And Tom _was_ twitchy. Whenever another first year was announced a Gryffindor by the omniscient hat, and Gryffindor let free loud and rowdy cheers, Harry’s entire body seemed to freeze up with distaste at the thought of joining. Furthermore, whenever he greeted his housemates, calling across the table to say hello, how was your summer and whatnot, his jaw clenched and his smile quickly became a grimace. Hermione had noticed of course, and had actually rubbed his shoulder, asking concernedly if he was alright.

 

Harry’s skin crawled at the touch.

 

“ _Tom, what is_ wrong _with you?”_ Harry moaned as his arm refused to move and pick up a Treacle Tart so that he might place it on his plate.

 

There was a small movement in Harry’s mind, some strange sort of mental shrug. _“I just happen to have a dislike for Treacle Tart,”_ Tom replied, his tone nonchalant as it had been all night.

 

Harry’s outrage at these words even caught Ron’s attention, but he didn’t let Tom’s bad taste in confectionaries distract him. “ _This isn’t about the Treacle Tart, Tom. Though if you want to inhabit a brain with me, I refuse to give it up; just so you know. No, it’s that all night you’ve been all…. all-”_

 

 _“All what, Harry?”_ his companion asked pleasantly.

 

“ _All twitchy!”_ Harry exclaimed, gesturing to the table in a dramatic flourish that made some of the first years giggle at him.

 

“Is Harry Potter always like that?” he heard a small girl ask Seamus Finnigan.

 

“Sometimes,” the Gryffindor answered, and Harry’s ears turned red.

 

“ _I have_ not _been twitchy,”_ Tom denied. “ _I’m simply unused to all these stimuli. Previously I have been contained by a rather calm environment and currently, the environment is anything but.”_

 

Harry sighed, glancing down at his plate full of broccoli (Tom, ever the parent). He was very used by now to Tom’s intellectual rants. He was half convinced that the man did it just to avoid answering the question. A subtle way of telling Harry to back off by making him _want_ to back off. It was not very pleasant listening to these intellectualised rants of Tom’s.

 

“ _I do not rant, Harry,”_ he corrected. “ _I instruct.”_

 

The argument continued all the way until Harry was in bed that night, lying stiff and uncomfortable in his four poster bed. By now they had bickered about Tom’s reactions to the Gryffindor common room which were far too despairing (“ _Why is it everything_ red _Harry?”)_ for Harry’s liking, as well as his responses to his room, which was again, covered mostly in red. More to Harry’s concern however, was Tom’s reactions to Hermione, which were stilted and made it very hard to communicate with her.

 

“ _I just don’t understand why you’ve been acting all weird,”_ he argued, eyes fully open and staring at the red canopy above him, despite the late hour. All his room was asleep now, and they’d finished the compulsory back to school room mate greeting party (one that Tom had disliked very much).

 

A strong sigh, and suddenly, all the tension leaked out of him, his tongue tasted honey and sherbet, and Tom spoke. “ _I know Harry. I know. But just… please stop asking me.”_

 

He was almost too sleepy to respond now. “ _But why?”_

 

“ _She’s your friend Harry,”_ Tom responded. “ _She’s your friend so it doesn’t matter. Just… give me a day or too. I promise I’ll stop… being twitchy or whatever you call it. Just give me some time.”_

 

Harry rolled over, so that he was facing the window pointing the to the view from Gryffindor tower. “ _But you won’t tell me why you’re so twitchy in the_ first place,” he mumbled.

 

“ _I know,”_ Tom replied. _“I know.”_

 

Other than that the school year started rather placidly, for which Harry was very grateful. Instead of embarking on an unknown and possibly dangerous adventure straight away, he was welcomed back into the comforting folds of Hogwarts, his home, the only place really, that he’d ever been happy. Even if that included getting lost, homework, and yes, even Professor Snape. What he was most relieved about, was that Tom, true to his word, stopped responding so dreadfully to Hermione. Other than regular complaints about Gryffindor aesthetics, which Harry would _never_ admit he agreed with, the man was silent.

 

The first class they had was Herbology and Harry was pleasantly surprised at how much knowledge Tom contained on the subject. They were repotting mandrakes and the ugly little things were bawling so pathetically, it was very difficult to hear Professor Sprout in her fuzzy pink earmuffs. Harry doubted she could hear herself. However, Harry managed to listen to Tom instead and consequently manage to answer Professor Sprout’s question. He put his hand up, rather modestly, after Hermione’s.

“Mandrake and Mandragora,” said Harry, trying to quote Tom perfectly, “is a powerful restorative, used to erm… return people who’ve been transfigured or cursed to their…. to their original state.” When he had answered, he noticed Hermione beaming at him, whilst Ron was grinning at him somewhat surprisedly.

 

“Good job, mate!” he mouthed at Harry.

 

“Excellent work Mr Potter,” Professor Sprout smiled warmly at him. “Ten points to Gryffindor. Now the Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also however dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

 

Harry let Hermione answer this time, despite Tom’s helpful whisper in his mind.  “ _Their crying is fatal… Except the infants simply make you fall unconscious…”_

 

He barely heard Hermione’s response, but spent all of class chatting idly with Tom about second year Herbology, comparing it to Tom’s experience at Hogwarts. He was so silent in fact, that he drew concerned glances from Ron and Hermione. He barely spoke to Justin Finch-Fletchly, a muggleborn Hufflepuff who was partnered with them (Tom was curiously quiet about the Hufflepuff as well, although Harry was too busy speaking about the further medicinal qualities of mandrakes to notice much). Transfiguration however, was a much more exciting class. The classwork was to transfigure beetles into buttons; apparently a topic Tom knew well, if the fierce wave of cocoa-tasting nostalgia Harry felt suddenly was anything to go by, once Professor McGonagall had announced it.

 

Harry closed his eyes at his desk, imagined the magic forming and rushing along his arm to his hand, to his fingertips, until finally he felt it stream into his wand and onto the beetle. There was a small _pop_ and Harry opened his eyes again, startled as a plastic button rolled off the desk and onto the floor.

 

“Excellent work, Mr Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s voice sounded from behind him. “Perhaps a bit less power from your wand however. You don't want all your buttons escaping you.”

 

Harry grinned triumphantly at the praise, meeting Ron’s eyes beside him who was gazing at Harry’s button, still on the floor, in awe. “ _Well done,”_ Tom whispered. “ _Your wand uses magic efficiently. That is why you overpowered the spell. Only very slightly, that is. You’re not used to an instrument.”_

Harry was distracted from Tom’s words however by Ron, who had had no such luck with his own button. Growing increasingly frustrated, the redhead’s wand had sparked, engulfing him in thin, shadowy smoke. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron had accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbows.

 

Professor McGonagall sniffed. “Losing both buttons and beetles, you two? Please Mr Weasley, _do_ be careful with this one.”

 

Ron promptly turned a fierce shade of pink, and he mumbled an apology as the Professor replaced his beetle. “But how do you _do_ it?” he turned to Harry, a little desperately. Harry had to smile again; was this how Hermione felt when she succeeded before anyone else? Their bushy-haired friend had arrived to Transfiguration much earlier, and was therefore sitting directly at the front of the classroom. Glancing over, Harry saw she had already managed to create a small pile of plastic buttons, and he mentally cheered her on. Tom seemed impressed too, if the surprise Harry tasted meant anything. It tasted like one of those lollies used to make your breath smell nice, like spearmint, and it was just spicy enough that it was enjoyable.

 

“Well,” Harry cleared his throat, which was dry from the smoke released from his friend's wand and looked back at Ron.  “I just focused on my magic. I called upon it, imagined it rushing from my wand onto the beetle.”

 

Ron was gaping at him. “Blimey Harry!” he said. “You must have got really good in your sleep or something.” Tom snorted. “It takes ages to actually feel the flow of your magic!”

 

Harry stared. “Really?”

 

“ _Wandless magic,”_ murmured Tom, _“makes rather good practice. You’ll very likely notice much of your spellwork improving.”_

 

Harry grinned. “Wicked.”

 

That lunchtime was rather unpleasant to say the least. After dining in the Great Hall they went outside to the overcast courtyard, where Hermione pulled her copy of _Voyages with Vampires_ out with a haughty sniff.

 

 _“That girl…”_ murmured Tom in something like amused awe at her obsession.

 

It made Harry snort, a sound that scored him a raised eyebrow from Hermione. He coughed, looking away from her exasperated gaze. Then he noticed a small mousy-haired boy staring at him rather obviously. He was clutching a muggle-camera, and went bright red when Harry met his gaze.

 

“All right, Harry?” I’m – I’m Colin Creevey,” the boy said breathlessly. But the annoyance, sudden as it was that emanated from Tom made Harry miss most of the boy’s subsequent speech.

 

“A picture?” Harry repeated blanky.

 

 _“You’re famous remember,”_ Tom mumbled. “ _He probably wants an autograph. Probably a mud – muggleborn.”_

 

Mud what? Harry was about to ask when Colin interrupted the thought.

 

“It’s brilliant here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic until I got the letter from Hogwarts.”

 

Harry could relate. But again that small thread of _something_ had appeared _,_ some little irritation that when Harry examined more closely appeared to be at… him?  But what for? Regardless he hardly heard Colin’s tirade. He hardly heard anything at all, until Malfoy’s loud voice brought him back to reality and Harry felt like he’d been hit with a bucket of cold water.

 

“Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos, Potter?”

 

Harry and Ron spared a moment to stare at Malfoy in utter bewilderment.

 

“Everyone queue up!” the blonde roared to the now gathering crowd. “Harry Potter’s giving out signed photos!” Tom’s exasperation seeped through Harry as he stared at Malfoy incredulously. And then an image appeared in his mind (but not _from_ his mind) of Malfoy, face stained tomato red with embarrassment. Harry suddenly wanted to make that happen, wanted to humiliate the git as he’d never experienced before. Sure, he hated Dudley, but most of his own barbs towards his cousin were of a defensive nature. Now however he wanted to lash out, wanted to hurt the blonde. It was like Tom was _offering_ it to him, as if all he needed to do was just say _yes_ and it could happen. It would happen.

 

“ _Yes.”_

 

Something in Harry’s brain shuttered.

 

He smirked. “Do you want one, Malfoy? I’d be happy to give you a photo, but you have to lend me a quill.”

 

Ron snickered as Malfoy’s face turned a blotchy red. _But not red enough._

 

“I- I do not! Like I’d ever let you dirty one of my possessions.”

 

“Oh alright,” Harry raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Since it was your idea, I just assumed you wanted one. But that’s fine.”

 

He turned to Colin, ignoring Malfoy’s furious face. “Sorry Colin. No signed photographs; it wouldn’t be fair if you got one and Malfoy didn’t.”

 

The boy in question let out a furious squeak that had Ron quivering in laughter. “I do not!”

 

Harry gazed at the blonde pityingly.  “Whatever you say Malfoy. But if it’s because you don’t have a quill, I’m sure Ron would lend me one. Hey Ron, do you have a spare quill?”

 

Ron nodded, straight faced although his bottom lip was trembling. “Sure Harry.”

 

Malfoy’s face had become the desired shade of burgundy now. It was also apparently the shade of red at which Malfoy lost all sense as he let out a last, angry “My father will hear about this!” and walked quickly out of the courtyard. He still had the mind not to run, at least.

 

Walking to Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Hermione looked at him questioningly. “That wasn’t very nice what you did to Malfoy, Harry.”

 

Ron guffawed at her. “What? It was amazing!” He sidled up to Harry and placed an arm around him. “Don't listen to her, Harry.”

 

Hermione released a smile at them then. “Alright - I’ll admit it. It was pretty brilliant, Harry.”

 

Harry shook his head, and smiled but didn't reply. Tom was celebrating in his mind triumphantly, but in such a mild manner it was like having tea. And biscuits. With Professor McGonagall.  “ _Thanks for helping me,”_ he murmured to the man. “ _How did you even do it? How did you_ know _that you could do that?”_

 

Like always, Harry knew that Tom was smirking. Theoretically, he was smirking, that is. “ _I only need your permission, Harry. The Malfoy boy wasn’t difficult to humiliate. I’m sure you would have succeeded in procuring a similar result.”_

 

Harry’s grin widened, and Hermione gave him a questioning glance. “Something funny?”

 

He nodded. “Just thought of something.”

 

“ _That would be impossible for me, Tom. Thank_ Merlin,  _you were there to help me. Hey, can you do that during exams?”_

 

Tom’s amused “ _No, I am not possessing you during your exams, Harry”,_ was the best thing yet. It tasted like raspberries.

 

They reached the classroom, and ignoring Hermione’s pointed look, Harry went with Ron to the back. Rolling her eyes, Hermione followed them and placed her bag down beside Harry.

 

“I hope he’s not as bad as Quirrel,” Ron muttered, glancing at the ostentatious blonde who had just passed through the doorway into the classroom.

 

“Ronald, don’t be rude!” she scolded the redhead, but her mouth was curled up at the corner, a little smile that she couldn’t hide. “He’ll be just brilliant, have you even read his books? He’s done so many things.”

 

Harry laughed at her, empowered by both his and Tom’s amusement at her faith in their new Defense teacher. “I have actually. And I think they're a load of bollocks.”

 

“Harry!” Hermione huffed out a complaint, half laughing while Ron snickered. “You can’t speak that way about a Professor.”

 

Harry shrugged.

 

“ _She’s right,”_ Tom murmured. “ _He may surprise us, you know.”_

 

“ _And what’s the likelihood of that?”_

 

 _“Not much,”_ Tom replied, the taste of warm, raspberry compote making Harry’s mouth water. It was like he’d just tasted a spoonful of the dessert; Tom was that entertained by the whole conversation.

 

“Anyhow, I think we’ve already had the worst Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher - You Know Who that is,” Hermione said tartly, “Professor Lockhart will undoubtedly be an improvement.”

 

It was like all the air had disappeared, and Harry struggled to breathe with the suddenness of it all.  Because how dare she speak about the Dark Lord as if she knew anything, knew anything about teaching, he would have been _brilliant,_ he _despised_ her, the stupid, little mudblood - she knew nothing, absolutely nothing, why he wanted to-

 

“You have a point, I guess,” Ron said doubtfully, looking in Lockhart’s direction. Class was about to start and Harry still couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was falling, like Tom had been holding him away from a precipice and he’d just let go. He was swimming in it, the icy absence of his friend, who he could feel was drowning up on that cliff top, far away so far away. Tom was drowning and Harry couldn’t reach him.

 

Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. The blonde wizard walked up to Neville Longbottom who was sitting at the front of the classroom, and picked up the boy’s copy of _Travels with Trolls._ He held it up to show the class his own, winking portrait on the front cover.

 

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well, “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League and five times winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile award. But I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!” Lockhart waited for the class to laugh; a few people smiled weakly. Harry fell down the barricade he’d been scaling, stood up and tried again.

 

“ _Tom!”_ he shouted. “ _Tom, let me in!”_

 

“I thought we’d start today with a little quiz,” Lockhart said. “Nothing to worry about…”

 

Finally, he managed to reach the top of the barrier. _“Please come back,”_ Harry begged. “ _You can’t just leave in the middle of a conversation like that! You scared me. You’re scaring me.”_

 

Tom’s presence manifested slowly, so slowly it was like waiting for grass to grow. He melded with Harry neatly; their minds fit together with the overpowering sweetness of relief on both sides.

 

“ _I am sorry, Harry.”_ An apology, as Lockhart spelled the test papers to fly over to each student’s desk.

 

 _“Don’t do that again!”_ he snapped back, angry and frustrated.

 

He turned over the quiz paper and read it. All his anger leached away.

 

__1) What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite colour?_ _

_2) What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?_

_3) What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?_

 

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

 

_54)  When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?_

 

“ _Tom,”_ Harry murmured. “ _Lockhart is definitely worse than Voldemort.”_

 

A puff of air, a quick exhale from Harry’s lips, but it was all Tom in that moment. _“I don’t think you can understand how relieved I am to hear that, Harry.”_

 

Harry didn’t understand, but he was too busy being horrified at Lockhart to stay annoyed at Tom.

 

“ _Is this what a Hogwarts education has come to?”_ his friend asked as a pixy threw Lockhart’s wand out of the window. The Professor dived under his desk.

 

 _“No. McGonagall and Flitwick are much better,”_ Harry gasped out, as Neville cluttered to the ground, ears a bright red. “ _It’s because of this stupid curse.”_ He narrowly avoided a pixy, who had come flying at his face. _“Lockhart will be gone soon enough. Hopefully.”_

 

“ _Oh”_ Tom gasped as if he had heard something tremendously important and began to laugh wildly. " _The curse!”_ Meanwhile, Hermione immobilised the pixies with a clever Freezing charm, and glared at Ron’s complaints.

 

“Look at all the amazing things he’s done,” Hermione argued.

  

Ron wrinkled his nose contemptuously. “He _says_ he’s done.”

 

*

 

That evening Hermione, Harry and Ron sat across from the fireplace, in the most comfortable seats in the Gryffindor common room. Although it was too early in the year for there to actually be a fire in the fireplace, the atmosphere was dim and cozy. A couple of older students had stared at them jealously when they’d snagged the spot, and Harry had had the absurd urge to laugh when Tom began… well there was no other word for it but _preening_ really.

 

 _“Hermione’s the one who got us the seats,”_ Harry snorted. “ _Why are_ you _proud of yourself?”_

 

“ _Yes, yes, the girl is brilliant, I_ know, _you needn’t repeat it.”_

 

Harry rolled his eyes and went back to the conversation. The girl in question was badgering Harry as to his new skill at Transfiguration, much to Ron’s amusement.

 

“Harry, I’m really pleased you kept up with the summer reading,” Hermione smiled delightedly. “It mentioned the exact wand motion for the work we did in class today. It’s quite elaborate actually,” she eyed Ron, ignored his muffled “Hey!”, “to cast the spell without the reading.”

 

Tom huffed out a laugh. “ _You know, she reminds me of… a boy named Abraxas who I went to school with.”_

 

Harry grinned, feeling a heady content emanating up from his chest. Here he was, sitting with his two, well three now, best friends in the world. He’d been so despairing all summer, until Tom had shown up, and now he was back at Hogwarts. It was a relief really, to know that Hogwarts would always be waiting for him.

 

“Why so happy?” Ron asked him curiously, interrupting Hermione’s tangent.

 

Harry shrugged. “Just glad to be back is all. I really missed you both this summer.”

 

Hermione’s brow puckered. “But for a long time you never replied to our letters Harry! And you never said why. Was it the owl delivery service in the end?”

 

Harry grimaced, and felt Tom’s answering chuckle at the memory tickle his vocal chords. “Some house elf from the Malfoy family was preventing my letters.” He didn’t mention the diary, or the mysterious danger Dobby had mentioned. He didn’t mention Tom either. It felt… too raw and private to share.

 

Ron gave a small bark of dismay. “What? Malfoy did that? I mean... Fred and George play some cruel pranks sometimes but that’s just… “

 

Harry murmured in agreement.

 

Hermione however leaned forward in her seat. “A house elf, Harry? What’s that?”

 

Harry glanced at Ron who looked surprised at Hermione’s ignorance. It was probably unfair to treat her like an encyclopedia, but sometimes it was difficult not to.  Ronn fidgeted in his lip slightly. “Really rich families like the Malfoys have them. They’re like servants.”

 

Hermione’s lips pursed. “You mean… the role of the servant is based on their species?”

 

Ron looked surprised for a moment, before shrugging heedlessly. “I guess.”

 

Hermione’s voice rose in anger, and Tom seemed to burrow down into himself. Of course, Harry raced after him.

 

“ _Her words have worth,”_ Tom told him. “ _I had... “_ and Harry felt the tell-tale blush of something like embarrassment emerging here, “ _I had not considered as much.”_

 

Harry remembered Dobby’s panic at the thought of the Malfoy family, his wretched state of dress and malnourishment, his harrowed self-punishments.

 

“I agree,” he stated firmly, pulling his friends out of their rather one-sided debate. "I mean, this elf… He was so messed up from their treatment of him. He punished himself if he made a mistake, and… he can’t leave! It’s… nothing more than slavery.” Hermione looked outraged at this, and Ron’s freckles stood out all the more as his skin paled.

 

“That’s horrible,” the redhead mumbled, eyes downcast. “I’ve never actually met one, you know. I always thought they loved working as servants, but if what you say is true, Harry...”

 

Hermione moved her schoolbooks from her lip to beside her, leaning forward so as to rest her elbows on her knees. “Loved working? They’re probably all brainwashed; it’s quite ingenius really, using a stereotype to keep things as they are. I think it’s disgusting.”

 

“Brainwashed,” gaped Ron. “What’s that? They don’t really… you know… wash them, do they?” As Hermione attempted to explain the mechanics of brainwashing to their wizard-raised friend, Harry focused back on Tom, who was listening to the conversation with a focus on Harry’s immediate dialogue he rarely possed.

 

 _“The mud-_ muggleborn _is probably correct. There is much that people will do if trained to think a certain way.”_   His words possessed a dark certainty that drew a shiver up Harry’s spine. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tom had known any wizards who had been brainwashed.

 

He stood up suddenly, again startling Ron and Hermione, who had been in a deep discussion about the exact definition of a cult, and whether Slytherin counted. He felt Tom’s mock hurt, and grinned at them.

 

“ _I’m not so sure, Tom,”_ he murmured to his friend. “ _You haven’t met the current ones. Excepting Malfoy of course.”_

 

_“Yes. A superbly disappointing example of a Slytherin. I did much prefer his grandfather.”_

 

 _“You knew Malfoy’s grandfather?”_ His shock made Tom laugh, and consequently, he smiled again.

 

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice pulling him out of his reverie.

 

“Oh, sorry,” Harry turned back to her. “I’m going to bed. We’ve got Lockhart first thing tomorrow and… I want to be well-rested for it.”

 

Hermione’s face turned from concerned to exasperated and Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, he’ll be wonderful Harry. The man’s a genius, truly.”

 

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Did you forget about today?”

 

“An accident! Mistakes happen to everybody. Honestly, Ronald if-”

 

Harry promptly ran to his dormitory to escape, ignoring Ron’s pleading expression. “ _Tell me more about Malfoy’s grandfather.”_

 

_“I mentioned him earlier; your… friend reminded me of him.”_

 

“Hermione?” Harry questioned, gobsmacked. The facial expression was difficult, mind you, as he was in the midst of brushing his teeth, but he managed it somehow.

 

“ _Mmm. Stubborn individuals of high motivation, intelligence and usually… of good sense.”_

 

“Right,” Harry mumbled aloud as he walked out of the bathroom to his bed. He was the first person there, and as he laid down, he couldn’t help wiggling his toes in pleasure. It wasn’t his first night sleeping in a Hogwarts bed, but Harry doubted he’d ever tire of the feeling.

 

“ _What happened with Hermione today?”_ he asked again, eyes slipping shut. An abrupt shuttering of every calmness; Harry’s muscles tensed and his hands fisted. But why was Tom’s reaction so visceral?

 

 _“I would rather not speak of it,”_ came Tom’s emotionless, cold voice. Something acidic lay under his tongue; sharp and unpleasant, but most of all, worrisome.

 

 _“But you said you wouldn’t,”_ Harry argued, but there was no ire in him. Only confusion.

 

“ _And I meant it! Today was…. an accident. It won’t happen again. Not like that.”_

 

Harry sighed, knowing he’d need to be satisfied but light years away from it. “ _Please don’t. I was... terrified.”_

 

“ _Of me?”_

 

_“For you.”_

 

_*_

 

_Curious that light. It had begun to permeate through the darkness like the frail flutterings of a spiderweb, sticking to the air until there was more glow than dim. And slowly, ever so slowly, the shadows were replaced._

 

_We are all the same in the end. We cry out, voices blackened with despair of the cruelty of ourselves, and until our misery ends, hope is there. Hope is with us. And until the last sands of light fill us up fully, fear is just as apparent. It stifles the light, the hope. It is too thick, and cloying. So even as there was the hope in the shadows, there was fear in the light. Fear for the light._

 

_Would it all be lost? He despaired._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here's chapter 6 - hope it's enjoyable! It's probably not as dramatic as the previous chapter, but it IS important. Anyway, again I have to give a huge thank you for all of your response to the last chapter. Seriously - the way my arms flail as I read all these beautiful comments is embarassing. Kudos are too, always appreciated, as are public bookmarks!
> 
> If you catch any spelling errors, or whatnot, please share. I edited this while very tired and even then I caught quite a few. There may very well be more.
> 
> My next chapter might be a little late. Only by a couple of days; I'm going away for a few days. However I'm very eager about updating this; it might be updated right within my current weekly schedule. That makes me sound so organised.


	7. Mudbloods and Murmurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title guys. Title.
> 
> Warning: Some dialogue and descriptions are taken from J.K Rowling's Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Chapter 7.
> 
> Obviously, I do not own the Harry Potte franchise. I wish I did, but I don't.

 

Over the next couple of days, Harry spent a lot of time dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. The man seemed to have a strange obsession with tracking Harry down in order to tutor him on being famous. It would have been easier to avoid him, however Malfoy, still smarting over his verbal defeat at the hands of Harry a few days before, seemed hell-bent on making life as uncomfortable as he could for Harry. More than a few times, Harry had seen Malfoy in conversation with Lockhart, pointing Harry out to him with a vapid smirk on his face. The first time he’d been about to turn down a corridor on the way to the Grand Feast, when Malfoy’s loud voice had called out, mockingly sweet: “Oh Harry! Professor Lockhart, he’s just over there, do you see?”

 

And then Lockhart had called out to him“Harry!” His footsteps had echoed in the hall as he came forward. “Harry! Young Malfoy here just mentioned you’re on your way down to dinner. Accompany me, would you? I have some knowledge that I think will prove helpful to you; from my Witches Weekly interviews you know, about interacting with female fans. One doesn’t write all the books I have done without some experience, after all… Harry? Harry, where are you going? Mr Malfoy, perhaps you'd better run after him, I don’t think he heard us.”

 

The second time, Malfoy had managed to find out that Harry was studying in the library with Hermione and Ron. The annoying blonde had led Lockhart all the way to the back of the library, behind the shelf labeled ‘15th-century Goblin Alliances: Marriages and Treaties’ where they’d been trapped for the better half of an hour. It was during this time that Professor Lockhart had shared the secret to “my beautiful smile, which of course I won’t mention, it’d be rude, you know,” with Harry. Harry had been nodding and humming at regular intervals, while his eyes had been rereading the sentence ‘ _The Shrinking Charm is similar in style to the Weightless Charm in that in shrinking, the weight of an object is diminished’_  in his Charms textbook. Lockhart’s words were easily tuned out in this manner, except the theory he was reading seemed to have gained Lockhart’s voice. Harry tried to pretend that this strange aural phenomenon wasn’t there; Tom was in favour of this approach. Meanwhile, Hermione glared at Ron and him with narrowed eyes for ignoring a teacher. It appeared that Ron had started doodling a sketch where a young boy with red hair was being eaten alive by a crocodile. On the same notepad Hermione had taken notes on tips for managing a smile worthy of Witches Weekly.

 

The trio stopped studying in the library after that, though Hermione began making the table behind the ‘Goblin Alliances: Marriages and Treaties’ shelf her regular study space.

 

Less difficult to avoid but just as irritating was the young Gryffindor Colin Creevey, who seemed to have managed to memorise Harry’s timetable. What was perhaps the worst of it, was that Tom took it as an excuse to point out the personality faults of Gryffindor using young Colin as his example. Harry, who always felt absolutely evil when he did this, wouldn’t be able to stop himself from laughing. This, of course, meant that he couldn’t defend his house, and the common room (“ _he_ liked  _the orange, dammit”)_ because he’d be too busy laughing in agreement. As a compromise, Harry blamed Tom for sharing his laughter, arguing that it wasn’t  _Harry_ that was finding Colin Creevey annoying, it was just  _Tom._ When Harry had first made this argument, Tom had snorted so hard, that Harry had done so too. The action had earned him a stern look from Professor McGonagal when it had occurred (during Transfiguration) but it  _had_ proved Harry’s point, which was the important thing.

 

This was all tolerable. Much of it was funny, in hindsight. But underneath it all was the constant thread of anxiety that seemed to worm its way through Harry’s skin whenever he saw Ginny Weasley.

 

It was only the first week of school. He didn’t share any classes with her. But Harry did see her in the evenings in the Gryffindor common room, where she’d often come and speak to Hermione, asking for assistance in Potions. It was fortunate that Ginny seemed too shy to speak to him because Harry was sure that he wouldn’t be able to hide the hostility he felt if she did. It was like a compulsion, as if some potent force ripped away all his awareness of the world and the room and its inhabitants until all he could think was ‘ _She has the diary, she has Tom, she_ has  _him, give him back, I’ll save him, he’s_ mine.’ At mealtimes, in particular, it was difficult not to throw a fork at her. One evening she had even sat  _beside_ him; Ginny’s face had been flushed the whole dinner, and she’d only stared at her food, perhaps looking up to answer a kind questioning from Hermione. She had hardly moved. But once when she’d reached to place a baked potato on her plate, her shoulder had brushed against Harry’s and his insides crawled. He had wanted to  _hurt_ her.

 

Harry had left dinner quickly that night.

 

It was fortunate really, that he had Tom. Whenever Harry had the sincere urge to god forbid,  _hurt her,_ Tom would step in until Harry was calm. It was a literal step in; Tom would move as Harry did, his mouth, his hands, his arms, his legs, any movement would all be Tom, any words would also be his. It meant that Tom could escape while Harry got himself under control, and Tom whispered words of calmness, of apology to him.

 

“ _I am so sorry,”_  he’d whisper. “ _This is all my fault.”_

Harry had never replied to this, had never been in the mental state to, but he appreciated it all the same. Not that he blamed Tom; of course not. But the support was sincerely helpful, was appreciated, and Harry had lacked that support most of his life. It was supremely wonderful to have it now. However, what Tom often had trouble helping with, was the guilt Harry suffered with after the affair.

 

That first particular night, Harry had lain on a sofa in the common room, having left the Great Hall. As all the students were still eating, the room was deserted, and he could simply stay there, relax in the silence and presence of Tom. Of  _only_ the presence of Tom. And then the guilt had started to churn, his forehead had creased, he felt nauseous, cold and hot simultaneously, and  _Merlin,_ he had actually wanted to hurt Ginny. As if he hated her (which he did not), as if he was some kind of monster or animal that just hurt people if they wanted something. Harry had looked up at the common room ceiling, which didn’t possess the same visual effects of the Great Hall, the same smoky sky or starless night, but it was nice all the same. It was red, a deep burgundy, almost like blood, without any of the shine. The colour seemed to remind Harry, that he was indeed, Harry Potter, Gryffindor student of Hogwarts. He didn’t want to hurt people needlessly. He didn’t  _do_ that. Which made the fact that he had actually wanted to strange and terrifying. It made him feel filthy.

 

“ _Harry…”_ Tom’s voice sunk into the cacophony of his thoughts like a stone in a pool of water. “ _Harry, it is_ not  _your fault. That diary is… it is evil. It possesses people, and makes them not who they are.”_

Harry closed his eyes, and breathed through his nose. “ _I know. But what does it say about me that I can be so easily tainted by it, when I haven’t even touched it? Have only seen it once?”_

Tom’s voice rose up now like a wave, trying to forcibly overcome any of Harry’s disbelief. “ _It is due to my presence Harry. That diary is a part of me; your soul is tainted by_ me.  _For that reason, the diary calls to you. It is complex magic, and nothing to do with you. You are a good person, Harry. And I would know this better than anyone.”_

Harry had to smile then. “ _You_ do  _live in my head. But guilt isn’t something I can exactly control. It just… happens.”_

“ _Does it?”_ Tom mumbled, and Harry opened his eyes, staring at the bloody hues of the ceiling.

 

_“It should.”_

The next morning Harry was terribly disappointed to find that it was Potions class. On the way there, after a breakfast where Hermione had asked concernedly if Harry was alright after leaving early the night before, he attempted to explain why Potions class so horrifying.

 

 _“Potions is a fascinating subject,”_ Tom was saying, his voice lively and amused. The feeling seemed to be riding along with Harry, helping quell his dread. It was a strange concoction, amusement and dread, but it wouldn’t prevent Harry from winning the argument.

 

 _“Well yes, but you probably didn’t have_ Snape  _teaching you. He wants us all to fail, except the Slytherins of course. But he just despises me.”_

A concerned note changed the flavour of their exchange. “ _Severus_ despises  _you? That is a strong word, Harry.”_

“ _Well it’s true. The only person he probably hates more than me is Neville Longbottom. I would rather be The Boy Who Lived than him during Potions class.”_

A chuckle and the warmth of sweet honey in his mouth.  _“I’m sure you’ve realised by now that you_ are  _The Boy Who Lived.”_

 

“ _Exactly. And please don’t call Snape Severus. That’s just… no.”_

Before long they reached the Dungeons, to find the very same Neville already there. He was standing a few meters away from the entrance, as if afraid that even touching the door would bring Professor Snape swarming out from behind it. But at the sight of the visibly terrified student, instead of inquiring concernedly if the Potions Professor was really that terrible, Tom burst into helpless laughter, the feeling of which, settling into Harry’s stomach, was immensely irritating.

 

“ _Stop that,”_ he hissed, annoyed and trying not to smile. Sometimes, the physiological effects of Tom’s presence were just too infuriating. “ _Snape treats Neville horribly. Just wait, and you’ll see how he treats_ me.”

 

 _“Sorry Harry,”_ Tom replied, but Harry knew he was still smiling, or whatever the equivalent was when you didn’t have a mouth, because  _he_ was smiling and he wanted to stop. “ _His face… I couldn’t_ not  _laugh Harry.”_

Harry only shrugged, walking up to beside Neville. Some of the Slytherins were arriving and at the sight of them, as well as their amused expressions when they saw Neville, Harry felt furious. Tom was a Slytherin, he remembered. He had probably laughed at Gryffindors all the time.

 

Amazingly, the thought didn’t make him very happy.

 

The chatter of the students around him quietened, and Harry looked up to see Snape’s expressionless face. It was, that is, until the wizard saw Harry, and his lips, already thin enough, tightened in distaste. Tom noticed it too, and any laughter remaining abruptly vanished. “ _I see what you mean, Harry.”_

Harry wanted to roll his eye but thought that Snape would probably purposely misunderstand it and take points. “ _Thank you,”_ he replied instead, as pointedly as he could, and began to follow his classmates down into the depths of the dungeons. For once, Hermione followed Ron and him to the very back, where they sat near Neville, hoping to hide in the shadow of a cupboard. Malfoy and his cronies of course, went straight to the front. Snape stood at the front of classroom, watching them all wordlessly. Once the last student had found their seat however (his lip quivered in displeasure when the chair scraped the floor), he spoke.

 

“So we are back again. I imagine most of you have not improved more than merely a fraction since last year… but we can always hope.” There was a silence as Snape’s gaze slashed through them all, before he turned and walked over to a desk at the front of the classroom, cloak billowing out behind him. “Turn to page 23. Read.” The sound of twenty students turning hurriedly to page twenty-three filled the room. Harry snuck a look up from his book, met Snape’s raised eyebrow, and looked back down again.

 

“ _Well Professor Slughorn was a little more jovial,”_ came Tom’s whispered admittance.  _“That does not mean that Snape is not a good teacher however. He is a genius of the art.”_

Harry rolled his eyes this time, knowing that Snape wouldn’t be able to see with Harry’s eyes looking to his Potions text. He did as Snape said, and read:

 

**_ Sleeping Draught _ **

****

**_ Ingredients: _ **

v  ** _1 wormwood sprig_**

v  ** _4 Valerian sprigs_**

v  ** _2 blobs of Flobberworm_**

v  ** _3 largish Sopophorous beans_**

v  ** _1 handful of powdered asphodel_**

v  ** _Essence of Nettle_**

** Instructions: **

  1. **_Crush the wormwood, add to the cauldron. Stir slowly._**
  2. **_Chop the Valerian, add to the cauldron and apply a high heat._**
  3. **_Juice your Flobberworm and add its thick mucus to your cauldron._**
  4. **_Stir vigorously, apply a low heat, and then give it another stir._**
  5. **_Chop the Sopophorous bean and add to cauldron._**
  6. **_Stir the mixture quickly, then heat._**
  7. **_Add a spinkle of powdered asphodel petals and a dash of essence of nettle._**
  8. **_Heat the potion a final time, then stir slowly._**
  9. **_Wave your wand over the cauldron to finish your potion._**



 

Tom scoffed. “ _Sleeping Draught! Surely you shouldn’t have any trouble with this.”_

Harry cringed and could barely manage to continue to read the warnings section of the chapter. “ _Just watch.”_

 

Sure enough, after Snape had ordered the class to begin brewing, the chaos had already begun. Pansy Parkinson had stolen one of Ron’s Flobberworms, and had placed one of her own into Harry’s potion. Crabbe walked all the way from the front of the classroom, and Malfoy hit Harry with a Stinging Hex so that he was distracted when Crabbe turned up the heat on his cauldron. By the time he’d noticed the potion was bubbling and steaming, the entire classroom stunk of burnt Flobberworm, with a Valerian finish.

 

Snape looked up from his desk. “I see our resident celebrity has shown his skill once again. 10 points from Gryffindor for offensive fumes. Please do attempt to follow the instructions, Potter.”

 

Harry’s face reddened as Pansy Parkinson gave a great giggle from the second row. Tom’s outrage burned deep inside his gut, enough so that is was difficult to stir the potion not too violently. “ _This is unprofessional, Harry. I cannot believe Dumbledore allows this to go on. This is blatant favouritism. Surely he noticed those students fiddling with your potion.”_

Harry shrugged and waved his wand over the potion to finish it. It was more maroon than purple, but it would have to do. He’d done better than Neville anyway, who had spilled his potion all over the floor, and had had to begin again. It was now a rather pretty golden brown, but nowhere a purple. No, he’d much rather be himself than be Neville.

 

Poor Neville.

 

By the time the day was over, Harry had almost forgotten about the diary, still smarting about Snape, as well as attempting to avoid Colin Creevey and Lockhart. He’d run into the man after Charms in his third class of the day, but had managed to escape by pleading that he’d be late to Herbology. So when he walked into the common room that afternoon, sweaty and aching with tiredness, it had done nothing for his mood to see Ginny curled up in a chair by the empty fireplace writing in the glossy, black journal. It made his hands clench, he wanted to  _take_ it from her, and why he’d do it, yes, he was walking over there and-

 

“ _Harry, go upstairs right now.”_ He started at Tom’s voice. With a small shudder, he realised what had happened and ran, felt tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, wanted to throw something. He felt so  _helpless._

 

Upon reaching his dormitory, Harry threw himself upon the bed, and just like the last time, simply lay there, gazing up at the ceiling in abject misery. “ _I just wish I could_ control  _it,”_ he murmured.

 

Tom was present in that way someone was when they were prepared to catch someone, to slow their fall to the ground, to save them. “ _I know.”_

Harry’s eyes traced the wooden posts of his four-post bed. “ _You said I need to take it off her. But I don’t know how. I’m scared I’ll claw her face off first.”_

He felt Tom reach out then, and it was like someone’s hand was stroking his hair. “ _I know.”_

“ _We need to think of a plan.”_

Tom’s caresses felt like watery silk kissing his forehead. “ _I know.”_

He fell asleep soon enough. 

 

He awoke when Oliver Wood shook his shoulders, grinning and practically hovering with the energy of himself.

 

“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.

 

“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!”

 

Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were making. “Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.”

 

“ _I thought I told you to quit,”_ came Tom’s sleepy voice, and the rotting taste of his displeasure. It was far worse than the coppery tang of morning breath.

 

“ _Yes, and I said no,”_ Harry muttered back, shivering as he crawled out of bed.

 

“Good man,” said Wood, an anticipatory gleam in his eye. “Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.”

 

What followed was an incredibly passionate discussion on the merits, or lack thereof, of Quidditch for so very early in the morning. When Colin Creevey appeared at the portrait hole at the entrance of the Gryffindor common room, his camera swinging wildly around his neck, Harry grabbed at the opportunity to further his argument.

 

“Colin!” he exclaimed, smiling wildly at the boy’s wide eyes. “Of course I’ll sign that for you. Want to come watch?”

 

“Watch what?”

 

“Quidditch practice.”

 

Colin’s mouth made a small ‘O’. “Oh wow! Wait for me – I’ve never seen a Quidditch match before.”

 

“ _See,”_ said Harry petulantly. “ _Even Colin gets it.”_

“ _I do not want to_ ‘get’  _something that Colin Creevey gets, Harry.”_

Harry’s steps slowed down as he realized his error, but was hard-pressed to fix it, as Colin’s rapid-fire questions continued.  Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried off to the stands.

 

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie, Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.

 

“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference . . .”

 

“ _Joy,”_ murmured Tom. “ _I approve of your hobbies, Harry. Tell me… are you going to wake up this early tomorrow as well?”_

_“Oh shut it, Tom,”_ Harry snapped and began to doze off.

 

“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at that very moment up at the castle. “Is that clear? Any questions?”

 

“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?”

 

Wood wasn’t pleased.

 

“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all. “We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control —”

 

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

 

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

 

“So this year, we train harder than ever before. . . . Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.  They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.

 

“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously.

 

“ _Unfortunately not,”_ muttered Tom.

 

“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall.

 

“ _Yes, Harry we could have been eating breakfast. I’m_ hungry,” Tom whined.

 

Harry’s left eye twitched. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.” It wasn’t like Tom was the only one suffering.  _Harry_ was hungry too.

 

He shook his head. Harry  _wanted_ to be here. Sure he was tired and hungry and still half-asleep, but it didn’t matter. He was about to fly, for the first time in months, and that was worth any inconvenience.

 

He mounted his broomstick and kicked off the ground, all the while staring at the sky. He didn’t look at the ground, but flew up and up, watching the sky become larger and clearer. It was that pale blue of the sky that preceded a warm day, and Harry loved it, felt the wind on his face as he soared, racing against Fred and George. That was until Tom had to ruin it.

 

“ _Is this really what all the fuss is about, Harry?”_

Harry huffed, and attempted a particularly ferocious somersault that had George guffawing. “Feeling enthusiastic, are we Harry?”

 

“You bet,” he shouted back, attempting to ignore the sour taste of Tom’s annoyance. “ _Can’t you just… feel what_ I’m  _feeling? Merlin knows we do enough of that already.”_

Any feelings of exuberance or weightlessness he’d been feeling before began to dissipate, as Harry caught the tail of something hurt and offended. He chased after it, even as he slowed down his high-speed flying. “ _You know I didn’t mean it like that, Tom.”_

_“Didn’t you?”_ Tom snapped wearily. “ _I hate Quidditch. Can’t you just understand that?”_

Harry sighed, and flew down to the grass of the Quidditch oval where Wood was bellowing at the captain of Slytherin team that had just arrived onto the pitch.

 

“-This is our practice time!” he shouted. “We got up specially! You can clear off now!”

  
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”

  
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.

 

“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage. “I booked it!”

 

“Ah,” said Flint. “But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. ‘I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.’”

 

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. “Where?”

 

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, a smirk pasted all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

 

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

 

“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. “Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the Slytherin team.”

 

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words 'Nimbus Two Thousand and One' gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early morning sun.

 

“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps” — he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives — “sweeps the board with them.”

 

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.

 

“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.”

 

Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.

 

What’s happening?” Ron asked Harry. “Why aren’t you playing? And what’s he doing here?” He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.

 

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy, smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my father’s bought our team.”

 

Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.

 

“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them." The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

 

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure talent.”

 

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered. “No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he spat.

 

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “How dare you!”, and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at Malfoy’s face.

 

He grabbed Ron’s arm and shouted “Stop!” causing an instant silence as everyone stared at him. Surprised by anyone actually listening to his words, he hesitated for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he wondered whether to speak again. Meanwhile, a strange coppery taste had started to seep into Harry’s mouth, and his stomach had started cramping with some indefinable feeling that could have been anything from excitement to nerves. Something was up with Tom, and that was all Harry could think of at that moment.

 

“Stop,” he repeated more quietly. “He’ll just get you in trouble, you  _know_ he will,” he said to Ron. Harry looked back at Malfoy coldly then, tried to pretend that Tom was possessing him again so that the words would come out smoothly. “Look Malfoy, if you had wanted my autograph you need have only asked. There’s no reason you had to join the whole Slytherin team and bribe them so that you didn’t have to come alone. I don’t bite. I’ll sign a bloody autograph if you want.”

 

The words come out tired and irritated, and that was the trick it seemed. It was realistic enough that the entire Slytherin team stared at Malfoy in utter shock. The blonde’s pointed face was becoming redder and redder as he blustered in surprise. “What- I do no- what- Potter!”

 

Practice ended for Harry then, as he didn’t stick around to see what Malfoy or Wood would do. He grabbed Hermione’s arm and walked off with her, Ron following quickly behind them. The young witch’s face had gone a terrible pale white, and her bottom lip was trembling. Harry could see tears beginning to blossom in her eyes. But his stomach was still twisting, and as he patted Hermione’s arm whilst leading her back to the common room, he distantly wondered if he’d need to throw up.

 

Finally, when Hermione had calmed down, after Ron and he had sat her down and brought her tea and biscuits, he asked what ‘mudblood’ meant.

 

Ron looked at Hermione’s tear-stained face gravely. “It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” he said. “Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you know, non-magic parents.”

 

Hermione nodded. “I read about it after you mentioned house elves, Harry. I was researching old wizarding families.”

 

Ron’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “There are some wizards — like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what people call pure-blood.”

 

Harry grimaced slightly. He really felt sick. Was it possible to conjure a bucket?

 

“I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t make any difference at all,” Ron continued.  “Look at Neville Longbottom — he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.”

 

“And they haven’t invented a spell Hermione can’t do,” Harry added, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta. The witch smiled at him and he would’ve smiled back, but Tom was kicking up a maelstrom. A migraine was beginning to form.

 

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, and his pale forehead creased. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.”

 

It wasn’t long after that, that Harry retired to bed complaining of feeling sick. Hermione had apologized profusely, remembering that he hadn’t eaten (and tea and biscuits don’t count), and had promised to bring him some lunch from the Great Hall. Harry had nodded, hardly hearing her. There were two things on his mind. The first was wondering what was wrong with Tom. The second was a smaller thing, something niggled at the back of his mind, but the more he pressed at it the harder it was to find.

 

Tom had calmed down after a while, and the headache had disappeared as well as the nausea. But his friend refused to admit to anything, saying simply that he was sorry he’d caused Harry to feel sick. Soon Hermione returned, and passed a plate of food over to Harry, and that was when he realized what the second thing was.

 

He was wondering why the word ‘mudblood’ sounded so familiar.

 

But then Ginny walked in carrying her diary, but it wasn’t hers, it was Tom’s, and Harry forgot that second thing.

 

“ _We need to think up a plan to steal it,”_ he repeated again, staring at the journal longingly. His fingers itched to snatch it from her hands.

 

Tom sighed deeply. “ _Tonight. We will speak tonight.”_

For the rest of that Saturday Harry waited in apprehension for the night. He only had a few hours of waiting of course, but it seemed to drag on forever, no matter how he spent the time. That was until he began studying some extension Transfiguration skills with Hermione. She’d since cheered up considerably and was enjoying the study session immensely. Her smile was wide, and as she spoke to Harry (Ron was playing chess with Seamus Finnigan as Dean Thomas watched in the background), her eyes seemed to glitter in excitement. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and soon Harry found himself interested too, despite his simultaneous dread and anticipation for the awaited discussion with Tom.

 

It was with a start of guilt that Harry realized how much Hermione really appreciated Harry’s sudden surge of interest in academia. Ron and he had found her constant obsession with school both annoying and endearing, but they’d failed to realize that no matter their own inclinations, Hermione  _loved_ learning. And their constant making fun of this love was probably hurting her. It was made obvious by Hermione’s current happiness, her jittery energy as if she wasn’t sure how long Harry’s interest would last.

 

She’d probably been very lonely, Harry realized. He promised to himself that he’d spend more time actively studying with her in the future. Just for fun, he thought. Just for the sake of learning.

 

Still, this didn’t stop him from almost constantly checking the clock on the wall. He wanted the diary.

 

“ _You know,”_ Tom’s voice murmured in his ears during a monetary lapse in Hermione’s and his discussion.  “ _I should probably tell you now that it’s a journal. Not a diary.”_

Harry released an amused exhale, hoping not to let Hermione misunderstand. They shared a small smile, before the witch went back to her reading. “ _They’re the same thing, Tom.”_

_“No they’re not,”_ Tom muttered back. “ _They’re very different things.”_

Harry rolled his eyes. “ _Whatever you say, Tom.”_

 

During dinner that night, Harry ate little and ate fast. He raced back to the dormitory, hoping to beat any of the other Gryffindors.

 

“ _So the diary,”_ he mumbled, sinking into the warmth of his bed.

 

“ _The journal,”_ Tom corrected.

 

Harry ignored him. “ _What do we do about it? You said it’s dangerous, but is it actually hurting Ginny?”_

 

 _“There is a chance she has already been affected,”_ Tom replied. “ _It will attempt to draw out her power and life force to make itself stronger.”_

 

Harry shivered in disgust.  _“That’s…”_

Tom’s melancholy flowed over him like the warm air of a humid day as you walk outside _. “I know Harry. I know.”_

Harry closed his eyes then, sighing _. “Whoever did this to you, Tom… I’m so sorry: they’ve taken a part of you and mangled it all up, used it to hurt people. And that’s not right, Tom. You’re not that kind of person.”_ He wasn’t prepared for Tom’s reaction, which was pained, to say the least. A deep stab of something like agony, Harry cringed and had to grab his chest at the sudden pressure. It was just like that morning. And then it disappeared.

 

 _“Thank you, Harry,”_ Tom murmured, so quietly it was barely a whisper. “ _But it means we must be very careful. We cannot let Ginny know we are searching for her diary. It is probably aware of most of her interactions, and you’d be in terrible danger, Harry.”_

 

“ _Alright,”_ Harry nodded. “ _Is there a spell or something? A potion to make her just give it to me?”_

 

He felt Tom pause to consider the idea. “ _There is something,”_ his companion said slowly. “ _Magic might wound up the horc…. Diary. Journal. But a potion perhaps…”_

 

Harry sighed. “ _I’m pants at potions. Snape’s class is proof of that.”_

 

 _“Yes, but the man despises you, Harry,”_ Tom pointed out. “ _Of course he’s going to make it hard for you. There is a potion I believe will work, but you will have to find the recipe and ingredients.”_

 

Harry suddenly felt excited. “ _A trip to the Restricted Section, perhaps?”_

 

Tom’s answering laugh made him grin. “ _Yes. The Befuddlement Potion, it is called if my memory serves me correctly. It is in the book_ “Mind-Addling Potions: Theory and Applications”  _by Thelma… I can’t remember her last name.”_ Harry did not stop to consider of course what Tom had been doing with a book like that as a student. He only went to get his invisibility cloak. “ _Well_   _let’s get started! There can’t be_ that  _many Thelmas in the Restricted Section.”_

Of course, because life tends to make things difficult when people say optimistic things, there were at least ten Thelmas in the Potions shelf of the Restricted Section, and as the books weren’t sorted by their name, or the first name of the author either, it took Harry at least forty-five minutes to track down the book after finding the Potions shelf.

 

 “ _In terms of skill,”_ Tom told him, “ _the Befuddlement Potion is of a fifth-grade difficulty. So you are going to have to study up on some higher level potions theory later, so that you don’t injure yourself.”_

 

 _“But why is the recipe located in the restricted section if it’s only fifth-grade?”_ Harry asked, curiously.

 

It was a little past curfew now. Harry had conjured a small sphere of light to read “Mind-Adling Potions” at a desk in the corner, hidden behind a particular thick shelf of books about which a sign near said ‘Permanent Human Transfiguration – Proceed with Care”.  Tom had advised him not to take the book from the library; who knew what security spells were attached to it?

 

“ _Well,”_ said Tom after a short pause. “ _I think that there was a small incident that banned these kinds of potions sometime fifty years ago. I don’t know much about it, but these students work a lot like the Imperius Curse, even if the Befuddlement Potion is relatively weaker. A student, I don’t know who, was using the potions… unwisely. I believe that whoever it was, remained a mystery.”_

 

Harry didn’t question why Tom would know so much about a random book in the library, and bi-century events leading up to its ban.  He did question however, the unfamiliar spell. “ _The Imperius Curse?”_

 

 _“Ah…”_ A short pause that was curiously quiet of everything. “ _It’s an Unforgivable Curse,”_ Tom replied, as if this meant anything to Harry. “ _The least reprehensible of the three, apparently.”_

 

“ _What’s an Unforgivable Curse?”_

 

“ _Three of the most renowned Dark Arts Curses were given the title of the Unforgivable Curses. They’ll send a practitioner straight to Azkaban if you’re caught. The Imperius Curse, in particular, makes a person do your bidding. The spell is derived from the Latin verb ‘Impero, Imperare, Imperavi, Imperatus”_ meaning ‘to command’.  _The victim loses any control over their actions, unless they have the mental fortitude to combat it. A little like what the diary is doing to Ginny…”_

 

Another short pause.

 

“ _The Cruciatus Curse is… well, it’s used to inflict pain. To torture. And finally, there is the Killing Curse. Avada Kadavra. It kills instantly. Nothing can block it. There have been no known survivors, except of course... “_

 

He didn’t need to continue, and a long moment followed in which Harry could feel some deep horror building up inside him, some strange anger that reverberated in his very bones, cursing his blood to rush faster in his veins, and his vision to swim. “ _How could anyone do that? What would cause a person to_ want  _to do that?... That spell… it killed my parents, didn’t it? “_

 

His emotional upset was causing the sphere of light to flicker and dim, and he forced himself to calm, allowing the sphere to glow softly and solidly once more. Harry felt Tom’s hesitation in his fluttering fingertips.

 

“ _I am sorry,”_ he heard finally. The apology caught him by surprise. “ _For what it’s worth I’m sorry, Harry. About your parents, about how you have suffered because of it. If I could change it… I would Harry. I would change it.”_

 

The admission made Harry’s eyes fill up, but a wonderful warmth was filling up his chest as well. No one had actually ever said this to Harry, you see. Never had anyone actually comforted him, or confronted the reality of Lily and James Potter’s demise. It made him want to smile and as much he wanted to cry and rage and slam his fists down on the table enough to bruise them. Most of all however, Harry wished Tom had a body so that he could hug him.

 

Harry sent a mental hug instead, and was deeply surprised by how upset Tom appeared to be. There was a terrible storm of emotions flying around, and it was horrible to witness. To feel. The thick wall Tom liked to use seemed to be quivering and shaking, and Harry could hear the loud booms of thunder that was all emotion tearing apart Tom’s barriers.

 

“ _Thank you,”_ he said instead, calming the storm. “ _Thank you, Tom.”_

 

Having had enough potions for one night, Harry crept back to his room. There was utter silence in the darkness, a situation that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Tom’s prison, and his own prison under the stairs. And then he heard something, something quite apart from the swish of the Invisibility Cloak around him, and his own quiet breathing. It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone-marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom. Harry jumped, before placing his back to the wall of the castle corridor, fully alert. His hands trembled.

 

 _“It’s started,”_ Tom whispered to him, voice grim. “ _The diary is fully awake now.”_

 

 _“What was that voice?”_ Harry asked, trembling and oh so terribly cold.

 

“ _It was a basilisk,”_ Tom replied, sounded distinctly worried. “ _Controlled by the diary. It’s purpose is the kill every muggle-born in the school.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Chapter 7. Stuff's happening. I hope you're as excited as I am! A week ago I figured out the plotline for the GoF and OoP arcs, or fleshed them out really. I was literally screaming with excitement. When I eventually share those chapters, you will all hate me. Mwahaha.  
> Regardless, thank you to all those who commented and kudoed and bookmarked (polysyndeton there) after my last update. Also, I invite any or all of you to please share any errors you find: spelling, grammar. These chapters take a while to edit, and it's so easy to miss something.
> 
> See you next week, lovely readers :)


	8. The Befuddlement Potion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A very small amount of text is taken from J.K Rowling's Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 8. I do not own anything affiliated with Harry Potter and its universe, except for my own writing in regards to it of course. 
> 
> Now read on!

_“Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . .”_

 

He could still hear it, that terrible voice and it still continued to claw at him, to freeze him in its silence, until the only thing he could focus upon was Tom’s presence. Harry crept back to the stone wall of the corridor, cowering between two silver coats of armour. The tall figures drew shadows against the light of the torches on that part of floor where Harry now stood, and in a moment of absurd lucidity, he thought of the irony. He’d been running from the shadows for so long, and now he hid in them. As if they could protect him.

 

“ _A basilisk,”_ Harry echoed. He rolled the word around his mouth, trying it out though he didn’t speak aloud. Harry drew his arms around himself, trembling from the cold as much as the fear. “ _What on earth is a_ basilisk?” He croaked out, wondering if the odd word was some sort of code for something that liked killing muggleborns for fun.

 

Tom’s sigh echoed throughout his whole body. “ _We should not speak of this now. Please, return to your dormitory. It is dangerous out here in the corridors. Especially at night.”_

 

Harry blinked in disbelief. Tom had told Harry that a monster or wizard murderer or some other frightening thing, controlled by Tom’s evil counterpart, was going around trying to kill muggleborns, which included some of his friends, and now the man expected him to just go sleep on it? _“I’m sorry?”_ He questioned, wondering if he’d misheard (or perhaps the word for it was mis-received-thought) or if his friend was just that mercurial.

 

“ _You heard me correctly,”_ Tom replied.

 

“ _But you_ have _to_ _tell me,”_ Harry almost cried with frustration. “ _You have to tell me so we can tell someone, we need to go to Dumbledore, he’ll stop it, the basilisk whatever it is. We need to-”_

 

 _“No.”_ The order was final, and for a moment, someone else’s panic was sending shivers down his spine. It faded soon enough, and Harry was left with the uncoiling sensation of his own fear deep inside of him. “ _Not now Harry. Return to your room. It is_ dangerous. _Please just do as I say.”_

 

_“What? No, I’m going to find somebody right now, they’ll tell me what this basilisk thing is and then-”_

 

 _“Now Harry!”_ and something strange came with the thought, something authoritative and officious even, and Harry stared down at his legs as they proceeded to walk off without his permission.

 

“ _Tom?”_ Disbelief turned quickly to stunned indignation, then to anger, quick and bright and burning. “ _Stop Tom! You can’t just do this without my-”_

 

 _“I’m sorry, Harry,”_ Tom’s thoughts were cold and formless. “ _We can’t have this conversation now. I should not have told you what I did. Without thinking. We will speak in the morning, but you must sleep.”_

 

Harry’s legs continued to walk, and for a moment he was distracted from his anger. It was the oddest sensation, and it had only occurred before with Malfoy. Because he could _feel_ his legs moving, he could feel the tendons and muscles flexing with every step, feeling the swish of his robes on his arms as they swung by his side, yet with every breath Harry took he willed for himself to stop. To stop walking. To stop being helpless, like a child, and he _was_ a child but he wasn’t six anymore. He wasn’t helpless like he had been before, all alone without magic and without a friend.

 

“ _Please,”_ he whispered, and something must have gotten through, some inkling of his fear and panic, and Tom’s control withdrew.

 

“ _I’m sorry.”_ The voice was stricken, and Harry could taste the remnants of it on his tongue, something bitter and afraid, like lime. “ _But I cannot talk about this, I cannot, not now. In the morning we will speak.”_

 

Harry was silent. He only stood in the empty, icy corridor, still except for the shivering and his breathing: large gasps and long exhales. Finally he nodded, silent, and began to walk on his own terms, up a flight of stairs, and another, until he had reached Gryffindor Tower and all his sleeping roommates.

 

“ _Don’t do that again,”_ he only whispered as he crept under the covers of his four-poster bed. Harry wondered how often he would have to repeat those words. There was something strange about Tom. These strong, powerful emotions at the oddest times, his fear and his fury, his initial treatment of Hermione, even the very fact that he _could_ control Harry if he wished, were things that, if Harry actually thought it, were deeply disturbing. So it was in silence and in darkness that Harry realised that he was utterly vulnerable in regards to his friend, and for the very first time, he doubted. It took a long while to fall asleep.

*

 

Sunday morning came with the sun and its light expelling all doubts away. Harry awoke peacefully with the sound of Dean and Seamus scuffling at the other end of the dormitory, and Ron’s loud hiss at them to be quiet.

 

“Harry’s still asleep, you know!”

 

Harry smiled at that, edging his eyes open with several slow blinks. For the moment at least, memories of the night before did not remerge.

 

“Thanks Ron, but it’s a bit late now.” He grinned up at his indignant friend. “I appreciate the sentiment though.”

 

Ignoring Seamus and Dean’s defensive ‘See! He’s awake!’ Harry yawned and got out of bed, making his way to the bathroom. It was only when he saw his own face in the mirror, pale with violet bags so dark they looked painted, that it all came flashing back to him.

 

At a sickening lurch of his stomach, Harry grimaced. “ _Please tell me now what a basilisk is. I don’t think I can stand the wait.”_

 

Tom uncurled in his mind like a miniature hedgehog, his feelings so bright and unshielded with sleepiness that Harry could only smile. In the lightness of the morning, it seemed silly to doubt his friend. When had Tom been anything but protective of Harry? He had comforted and helped him at the Dursleys, assisted him in schoolwork, and now it seemed in saviorship (which it seemed was proving a habit, now he looked at it). No. Tom had never been anything but a close and loyal friend, and it would be wrong for Harry to doubt him just because it had been a little dark the night before and he’d been scared. Like a _child._

 

Tom’s reply brought him out of his reverie. “ _Of course. But perhaps it would be better to wait after breakfast so that you could be alone.”_

 

Harry frowned at the idea. He wasn’t particularly hungry, and he doubted if he could eat when so impatient. Deciding then, he finished in the bathroom, and fully dressed, returned into the dormitory to tell Ron to go down to breakfast without him.

 

“Are you sure?” The redhead asked, looking at him concernedly. “Not feeling sick, are you? You look really tired.”

 

Harry smiled faintly at Ron. “Just a little. I think I might sleep a bit more, if that’s alright.”

 

Ron nodded. “’Course.” His friend’s gaze flickered over to the door, where Dean and Seamus had just walked out. “I _know_ I should’ve shut them up sooner.”

 

Harry shrugged, not caring either way. But there was one thing he _did_ care about. “Can you tell Hermione, because I know she’ll worry, that I stayed up writing that History of Magic essay?”

 

Ron made to laugh, before he cocked his head worriedly. “Did you really?”

 

“I did actually. Now you need to think up an excuse. “ Harry got back into bed then, not even attempting to keep a straight face at Ron’s outraged horror at having to face their bushy-haired friend. But then his good humour faded; he’d stayed up studying far something far worse.

The solemnity remained when Ron had left; in fact it grew darker, enough so that when all was silence, he had no idea where to start.

 

Tom it seemed did not have that problem. “ _Before we begin, I’d like to apologise for last night.”_ Although it seemed that his friend’s pesky wall was up, high and thick as ever, Harry could still taste the regret that Tom had let seep out. It made him wonder; if Tom could control what emotions made their way through the link, could Harry do the same? But why would he need to? There was nothing Harry felt especially that was a secret. The thought however, made him wonder.

 

Tom continued his apology. “ _But I do want you to understand that we are all in danger now. I do not want you out at night, especially without your invisibility cloak on and other safety measures that we will speak of. Most importantly, you must pay attention to the castle’s arachnid life, and the fate of Hagrid’s roosters.”_

 

Harry blinked, staring out at the Quidditch field outside the tower window, knowing that Hagrid’s hut lay near. “ _Hagrid’s roosters? And do you mean spiders? Tom I really think that you need to explain a bit more clearly. Last night you said that the basilisk was controlled by the diary. Is Ginny safe? I don’t understand how the diary can be controlling some sort of weird monster when Ginny has it. I mean, surely she’d notice if it went missing.”_

 

A sigh now, although Harry could not tell what else Tom might be feeling. “ _Yes she would. And she would notice if we asked her about it. We must be extremely careful now in attempting to steal the diary from her. Even more so than before.”_

 

Harry actually trembled in irritation. “ _You still haven’t explained anything! Are you going to tell me exactly why we need to do all of this?”_

 

Another apology, mild but sincere, and some sort of sweet apricot flavour was emitted from Tom now. “ _Forgive me; there is just so much Harry and it is… well it is difficult to know where to begin in explaining it all.”_

 

It was Harry’s turn to sigh, a little remorseful over snapping at Tom. Looking back, he hadn’t been very kind to his mental companion, had he? He leaned back onto the pillow of his bed, trying to calm himself, and send out that calmness out to Tom. If he could even receive it behind that wall of his, that is. Perhaps there was a post box, or something like that. He smiled at the thought.

 

“ _I suppose you could start by explaining exactly what a basilisk is,”_ Harry replied.

 

A chuckle now from Tom, small and barely there but still present regardless. The sound filled Harry with warmth. If Tom could still laugh even now, there was still perhaps, some hope that they could get out of this mess.

 

“ _A basilisk is a giant serpent. The King of Serpents it is called, and it is an apt name for it. It is derived from the Ancient Greek word ‘_ basileus’ _which translates roughly to ‘King’ or ‘Emperor’, and I imagine that correlates to the white spot on its the top of the head, which is rather crownlike in nature. However the suffix ‘_ iskos’ _is a diminutive, which would then make basilisk translate more accurately into ’little King’, perhaps like a Prince or some other noble position within its species. Now the reason its name comes from the Ancient Greek is because the first wizard that bred one, Herpo the Foul whom you may learn of later in History of Magic-”_

 

“ _Tom,”_ Harry interrupted him. “ _Are you actually telling me what a basilisk is, or recounting the Magical Beasts encyclopaedia of it? What does the root of its name got to do with one being in the bloody_ school?”

 

There was a conspicuous sniff from Tom. “ _I see your friend Ronald Weasley is teaching you bad habits._ History _and_ language _has quite a lot to do with how a basilisk got inside the bloody school, as you say.”_

 

Harry felt face burn. “ _Sorry,”_ he mumbled and rubbed the back of his neck. “ _I’m just really worried Tom. What it kills Hermione or something? And I have absolutely no way of stopping it because I know nothing about it!”_ It was only after finishing that Harry realised that his agitation had been sent over to Tom like a zip line. It was embarrassing; Harry decided that if he could, he’d hide such emotions from Tom. He didn’t want the man to keep things from him in case he’d react emotionally. In case he was too scared. The very idea mortified him.

 

“ _That’s understandable,”_ Tom replied, and Harry caught the formality of it. He felt shame creep over him. He didn’t want Tom to tread carefully with him for fear of tantrums either. He took a deep breath.

 

“ _Please continue.”_

 

 _“All right Harry,”_ Tom replied, diplomatic and restrained as always it seemed lately. “ _Now where were we? Ah, yes. Herpo the Foul, a wizard of the Ancient World, was the first to discover how to breed a basilisk. It is a very specific process, you must understand, because they do not reproduce exactly, or at least, we do not know of it if they do. A wizard must place a chicken under a toad, and if this process is continued correctly for long enough, a basilisk will hatch. And it is not just any snake Harry. A basilisk can grow up to twenty feet long, its venom is practically cureless and if you look into its eyes, you will die. It is a ridiculously dangerous beast, Harry, and I trust that you will not go looking for it.”_

 

Harry meanwhile was wondering if it would be cowardly to curl up in a ball under his bedcovers and never leave. A twenty-foot snake? That could kill with its venom _and_ its eyes? Tom was right. It _was_ ridiculous. However, as much he could, Harry tried to restrain his emotions like Tom did, and not let them out. He tried to construct a wall, but found it an impossible thing, the effort of it seeming equal to building a stone wall by hand.

 

Tom’s voice when it came was gentle. “ _There is no need to hide your fear, Harry. I would be worried if you were_ not _afraid, that you would go gallivanting off on your own. It relieves me, I can tell you, that you are not so foolish.”_

 

Although Tom’s purpose was well meant, it only made Harry want to curl up even more. He didn’t want Tom to feel every emotion of his. It came with a sudden understanding that most people would feel violated and angry if some being came and lived in their mind. He suddenly didn’t begrudge Tom his wall, even if it he was jealous of it. Harry wondered how he would feel if suddenly _he_ was tossed into the mind of some ignorant child who knew nothing, forced to share all his secrets and feelings, as if they weren’t his and only his.

 

It made him feel guilty.

 

“ _When can we get you a body?”_ Harry asked.

 

Tom’s surprise at the apparent non sequitur was obvious. It leached out from him in the taste of peppermint on Harry’s tongue.

 

“ _Not for a long time I am afraid Harry. It is a lengthy and arduous process. Perhaps we will think of it after you have finished your education.”_

 

Harry felt his cheeks growing warm. So it all came down to him then. He was too young, too ignorant, too brash. He wasn’t good enough. Not good enough at all.

 

“ _But I will return to the topic of the basilisk now,”_ Tom said, after Harry was silent. “ _And how one made its way into Hogwarts.”_

 

Harry closed his eyes, blocking out the brightness of day. He needed to focus now, to learn all that he could so that he could protect everyone. Let no one say that he wasn’t good enough for that. If he wasn’t, he would learn. Yes, that was how it would happen.

 

“ _You know that Hogwarts was created by Four Founders. Salazar Slytherin was one of them, and he had a different understanding of whom exactly should be taught magic. Slytherin believed that muggleborns did not deserve to be taught, as he considered them impure of blood, and inferior. Of course, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor did not agree with him. After a terrible fight with Godric Gryffindor, whom he had previously been friends with, Slytherin left. However, before this occurred, it is said that he created a room within the castle with a monster inside. Slytherin could control it because he spoke Parseltongue, you see. And it is said that when Slytherin’s Heir returns to Hogwarts, that with the language of serpents he will release the basilisk, and allow it to fulfil its purpose.”_

 

 _“To kill all the muggleborns,”_ Harry murmured back, feeling crumpled and tired and oh so terribly worried. “ _But… what does that got to do with the diary?”_

 

“ _Ah yes,”_ Tom muttered, apparently having forgotten. His wall seemed so steep, every crack had vanished and Harry wondered now if Tom had any emotions to feel at all. It felt like he was all alone again, all alone in the silence and darkness of his mind. Except for Tom’s voice however: Tom’s voice was the only reminder that his friend was even present. The very idea of being alone filled Harry up with such an icy terror that he did not even wish to consider it. But again Tom’s voice brought him from out from the trap of his inner thoughts. “ _The creator of the diary was Slytherin’s Heir, from what I understand.”_

 

Harry frowned now, something inside of him still indignant and upset at the thought of that wizard: the one that had hurt Tom so terribly. “ _So the Heir of Slytherin was the one that tore your soul and your mind up into pieces?”_

 

“ _Yes,”_ Tom was quick to reply. “ _Though you must remember that I was an accident. The diary was one of the first pieces, if you will. This means that the part of my soul, which it contains, is trapped at a younger age, and was imbibed with the purpose of Slytherin’s Heir. It can control the basilisk; it is created to do just that. And it is using Ginny, your friend’s sister, to achieve this.”_

 

Harry was silent for a moment, brow furrowed in deep thought. _“You mean the wizard, Slytherin’s Heir that is, tore your soul apart at different times… But I thought… I thought it was all at once. Unless… were you a prisoner of his?”_

 

The silence that followed was long, too long for the question that he had asked it seemed to Harry, and eventually, he wondered if Tom would reply at all. It was a relief when he did. Harry did not like feeling alone.

 

“ _Yes. You could say something like that. He took my soul pieces one at a time, and I was the last from what I know.”_

 

 _“So you mean that your body could still be out there. We could rescue it! Do you remember where you were?”_ Harry asked, so excited at the very thought that he had to sit up, fingers dancing with his energy.

 

Tom’s reply was disappointing at best. “ _No Harry. I am afraid that my body is nowhere to be found. I am quite sure,”_ and here Tom’s voice seemed to drip with venom (so much so that Harry checked the wall, though it was high and sturdy as ever), “ _that he has destroyed it.”_

 

Harry’s eyes dropped to his lap. He felt despondent now. “ _I am sorry he did that to you.”_

 

 _“Yes.”_ Tom’s voice was strained. “ _Though perhaps we’d better return to the fate of your dear Ginny.”_

 

 _“Oh!”_ Harry’s eyes widened in remembrance. “ _She being under the diary’s thrall you mean?”_

 

 _“Indeed,”_ and Harry could taste the grimness of Tom’s voice from something dark and metallic in his saliva. “ _Any overture from us, and the diary will know immediately. And send a basilisk to kill us. Or to petrify us, which both of us, I imagine, would dislike immensely.”_

 

_“Petrify?”_

 

_“If one meets the basilisk’s eye via another source, such as in a mirror or some other reflective surface, they will fall into a deep sleep, rather like a coma. Only a certain potion made with a Mandrake’s restorative powers can return one to wakefulness.”_

 

Harry shivered. The morning sun seemed to have hidden behind a cloud, and the tower room was plunged into dullness. “ _I think I’d like to go down to breakfast now.”_

 

All the solemnity seemed to die at once, and Tom’s presence could finally be felt, fuelling Harry with his comfort and warmth and concern.

 

“ _Of course. We should continue later, when you have eaten.”_

 

Harry shook his head, making his way down the dormitory stairs to the portrait of the fat lady (or the back of it). The air was much warmer here. “ _We should tell someone. Dumbledore. Surely he could handle it better than me. A Befuddlement Potion will take weeks, Tom. Someone could die in that time! I’m sure Dumbledore could get the diary. In fact,”_ and now Harry was becoming excited as he strode out of the common room, bouncing on the heels of his feet “ _he could even help free you. All the parts of you. Maybe even find you a body-”_

 

“ _Harry.”_ The finality in Tom’s voice stopped even his walking. A fourth year Hufflepuff crashed into him from behind, and Harry was sent tumbling, whilst the sound of the student’s apologies echoed in his ears.

 

“It’s alright!” He wheezed, trying to standing up. It was only after the Hufflepuff had helped him up, apologised twice more and patted him on the shoulder that Harry could reply to Tom, now making his way to Great Hall slowly and without appetite. “ _Why not?”_ His voice was small.

 

 _“Because they will take me away from you, Harry,”_ and Tom let Harry feel his fear now, feel the wild panic at the thought that he and Harry could be separated. Tom’s terror seemed to rush through him then, pooling deep within his belly and quickening his breath. He could taste it too, and the taste was of burning. “ _I will be honest Harry. Even in the Wizarding World, hearing voices is not a normal thing. I do not want them to think you are lying, or have done some great wrong. And I do not want them persuading you that I seek to harm you.”_

 

Harry swallowed. He had not even considered telling anyone of Tom’s existence until now, but had not thought it a secret either. In hindsight, it was almost strange that he _hadn’t_ thought of the idea. But now, with the taste of Tom’s fear in his mouth and feeling of it quivering within him, the very idea seemed abhorrent. The last thing Harry wanted was to be alone again, and if that meant keeping quiet about Tom he would do it, no matter how long it took to help him. But he now knew that he would always be on edge, always aware that one day, anyone could realise the fact of Tom’s existence. And take him away.

 

He shivered at the thought, and the movement was all his.

 

He arrived in the Great Hall to a nearly empty room. Harry was very late, it seemed. However, he spotted Hermione and Ron still eating at the end closer to the teacher’s table, and walked over to them, footsteps heavy.

 

Hermione saw him first, and her face was grave as she took him in. “Oh Harry you _do_ look exhausted. Why did you stay up studying? It was a Saturday night, you have plenty of time!”

 

The words were so unlike Hermione, but at the same time so very much like her too, that Harry broke into a smile. The change must have been great, because Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise.

 

“I’m really alright, Hermione. But it’s nice that you care,” he continued to grin at her, and sat down beside her. It was now however that he noticed how her plate was utterly empty and Ron’s too, excepting the usual stains of a finished meal. The knowledge hit him suddenly.

 

“You waited for me…” Harry murmured softly, feeling uncharacteristically touched at the gesture. A clean plate appeared in front of him, and he reached over to grab a sausage.

 

Ron frowned at him. “I agree with Hermione, Harry. Perhaps you’d better go to the hospital wing, you’re acting a bit strange. Course we’d wait for you! It’s a Sunday, and we have all day.”

 

Although Harry knew logically, that it was the role of one’s friends to support one, the actual occurrence of it took him by surprise. And with that surprise came an idea.

 

“ _Harry what are you thinking?”_ Tom asked suspiciously. Something dangerous made its way across the link.

 

“Hermione,” Harry said, taking a bite of sausage. He stopped to chew. “I’ve lately decided to improve my potion making. I think it would be really great to prove Snape wrong about me.”

 

Tom’s fury made its way across to him like a tempest, enough metaphorical water that it actually hurt to breathe. He tried to ignore the feeling, focusing on his friends’ reactions. Ron was gaping at him like a fish. Hermione looked overjoyed. But the expression lasted only for an instant, before the line of a frown marred her forehead. “I’m not so sure, Harry. It’s wonderful that you’re taking an interest in impressing Professor Snape, but… I don’t want you to get sick, Harry.”

 

“ _That’s right, Harry,”_ muttered Tom stormily. “ _I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I thought you wanted to keep them safe?”_

The threat was a low blow, and Tom knew it. Harry knew that Tom knew it too, and that was what hurt. That Tom would try to manipulate him like that. But Harry understood, simultaneously, why he had done it. It was the fear of before. That same icy, terrible fear.

 

“ _I won’t tell them anything,”_ Harry hissed back at him. “ _It’s just making a potion.”_

In response, Tom threw at him another tempest. Like a child throwing a tantrum. Perhaps Harry wasn’t the only one affected by his emotions too much.

 

Harry used the urge to grimace so that he could flash his teeth in a smile at Hermione. “That’s why I’m asking you. And Ron, too.” Ron’s face turned an interested shade of pumice. “You’ll keep me sane.”

 

Hermione smiled again, though it wavered. “Well, what do you have in mind?”

 

Harry felt his smile sharpen, and wondered whether it looked too sharklike.

 

“ _Yes. It does. You are a shark.”_

“I was thinking of something called The Befuddlement Potion.”

 

*

Ron was very angry with him. It was mock anger, but still. And Harry understood, he did. After all, now Hermione had planned their entire Sunday afternoon out. It was all homework; Ron was even forced to do his History of Magic essay. But it was all for the greater good (of course). If they completed their schoolwork time-efficiently and productively, then there would be more time to study and prepare the potion that Harry was so enthusiastic about.

 

Of course, Hermione had initially been unsure. “That potion sounds a little dangerous, Harry,” she’d said, eyes piercing. She was intelligent; she was suspicious. Ron was just annoyed. But Harry had made her come round. No he didn’t have an ulterior motive in brewing _this particular potion._ No he didn’t plan to use it on anyone, yes that did include Malfoy, unless of course they found a volunteer. And yes, he’d found the recipe in a perfectly harmless book about advanced potion brewing in the library (not the Restricted Section). And no, he couldn’t remember what the book was called, but he had written down the instructions for the potion. And why hadn’t he just taken the book? Why that was very simple. Now Madam Pince couldn’t kick him out of the library for all eternity if he spilled potion on it (these were all lies of course, but Harry believed that he had legitimate excuses for lying. Also, Tom would have killed him if he hadn’t).

 

So now Hermione was copying down onto her own parchment Harry’s version of the instructions for the Befuddlement Potion. Apparently this was because her handwriting was neater; Harry had been suitably indignant. He’d needed to be; he wanted the excuse to skulk off. Tom’s moping was causing a serious migraine to manifest, and his vision was starting to blur.

 

When Tom realised this, the migraine immediately lessened. “ _But why?”_ the man asked Harry then, confusion and perhaps even a little betrayal leaking into his voice. Harry wondered if that had been purposeful or not. Could they use their own emotions to manipulate the other? The thought was distasteful; he ignored it.

 

“ _Because they’re my friends,”_ Harry replied, adamant and confident in his decision. “ _And that’s what friends are for, Tom. You rely on them. I don’t want to lose them, because I’m trying to save the entire school from a giant snake. Even if they don’t know the whole story, we can rely on each other. I don’t want to abandon them ever. Just like I know you would never abandon me.”_

 

Tom hadn’t made any complaints after that conversation.

 

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire.

 

Tom had a different interpretation of the situation. When Harry had heard from Ron about his sister, he’d been silent the entire day, barely able to concentrate for fear of what the diary was doing to her. And he wanted the diary so much.

 

The weather however, was calming for both him and Tom in their constant worrying about doom and death. Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds.

The constant thrumming of the rain helped Harry focus; it seemed to tear away any excess fear or thought. And so it was with this lovely soundtrack playing that Harry found his two friends in a corner of the library on a Wednesday afternoon some days later. He’d been writing a Charms essay in the common room when it had occurred to Harry that he should go look for them. Flashing a smile at Hermione’s deep focus, Harry dropped into a chair beside her; Ron sat opposite them, nearly buried in the History of Magic homework he’d neglected.

 

Hermione glanced at him. “Harry…” she murmured, seemingly unsure. “I know you’re very enthusiastic about this particular potion. And I agree that it is seems interesting; you’d definitely learn a lot from it. But…”

 

Harry sighed, and leaned back into his chair. “But how on earth will we get all the ingredients?” He’d discussed the same problem with Tom, and although his options were a little wider (there was some kind of under the counter potions scheme with a store in Knockturn Alley he’d never heard of) some of the actual ingredient preparation was ludicrous.

 

Hermione nodded, looking relieved. “Yes. Look here,” she pointed towards one of the lower ingredients on the rather long list. “We’ll have to boil Passionflower petals during the moonlight of a waxing moon, three days short of full and preferably covered partly by cloud.” She looked back at Harry. “I know Professor Sprout grows Passionflower for Madame Pomfrey, it apparently helps with insomnia. But the full moon passed just yesterday. The next time will be in early November.” At that, Harry smiled at her, filled with affection and could even taste the slight sweetness of honey. Even Tom then, liked Hermione.

 

“You went and checked that, didn’t you?”

 

Ron piped up then. “We were hectoring Professor Sinistra for half an hour I tell you, while you were off writing your Charms essay.”

 

Harry snickered. “ _Ah, so Ron we have to thank here too.”_

Tom made a mulish sound. He found Ron a little annoying, though Harry knew he kept quiet about it for his sake. Even if he still complained about their house colour scheme.

 

“Well thanks,” Harry said then. “It was really helpful of you two.” He turned back to Hermione, who was worrying at her bottom lip, and staring at her handwritten notes. “That’s fine,” he said, catching her attention. “We’ll just have to prepare all the other ingredients before then. What day is three days before the full moon?”

 

“November 6th,” Ron mumbled, looking put out enough that Harry snorted.

 

They spent the rest of the afternoon making plans for the preparation of the ingredients. Other than the Passionflower petals, the only more inconvenient ingredient was the fairy wings, which needed to be soaked in Bulbadox juice for six hours, and according to Hermione, the only place they’d get some of that would be in Snape’s office.

 

Ron’s face turned green.

 

“Harry,” he whispered. “Are you that adamant about this potion? I mean… How many wards will _Snape_ have on his office?”

 

Hermione too, looked doubtful.

 

However, Tom sent a flurry of confidence into Harry that made his shoulders upright and his brow smooth. “It’s fine. I have the perfect idea.” Which was a lie, again, but Tom was giving him the words.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Fancy sharing, Harry?”

 

Harry shrugged. “Do you really want to know?”

 

Ron looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Hermione. “This smells like Fred and George. I think we’d best leave it be.”

 

There was the expected reaction of outrage, but Harry managed to quieten it down soon enough. Or Tom managed it, that is. Although Harry felt a little uncomfortable at the idea of giving up complete control of his body to Tom now, it was helpful when Tom spoke for him at least. And sometimes, when the wall was non-existent, they blurred together so much that he didn’t know who spoke at all.

 

And so the days passed. Harry spent a lot of time with his friends, and a lot of time studying for school. He also spent a lot of time thinking about finally getting his hands on the diary so that he could save everyone, so that the basilisk couldn’t kill anyone, so that he could stroke its cover, and feel its magic vibrate under his touch. He wanted to touch so very much.

 

There were other things to distract Harry from this however. He still had to spend too much time avoiding Lockhart. And Colin Creevey. But his schoolwork was going so exceptionally well that he had almost doubled his spare time. It was all because of Tom of course, Tom and his tutelage, but Harry was becoming more and more grateful for it. His teachers were very pleased with him, and Hermione too, was especially excited at his new talent in spellcrafting. Ron, too was impressed.

“I don’t understand!” the redhead muttered as they left Charms one afternoon. “The weightless charm is supposed to be really difficult, but you got it on the second try. That’s just… amazing. Harry.”

 

Hermione was nodding her head in agreement. “You’ve become very quick at picking up skills lately, Harry. And I know you’re working hard. We _both_ know that,” a quick, meaningful glance at Ron who huffed out a breath, “but it’s impressive nonetheless.”

Harry felt his cheeks burn, even as he fought to keep the smile off his face. “I just… feel my magic, you know? I let it out of my fingertips, into the wand and into the spell.

Ron groaned. “But what does that even feel like, Harry?”

 

So life wasn’t too terrible, if Harry really thought about it.

 

*

 

Once they’d managed to get their hands on the ingredients (and Harry had ordered Bulbadox juice from some questionable store in Knockturn Alley that Tom wouldn’t let him share the details of), they needed a place to brew the potion. They were in the common room one evening, arguing about it a week or so before Halloween. Ron was advocating the Astronomy Tower, however Hermione said that was absurd, that it would be exposed to the weather and what if rain was to get into it? Harry was just wondering whether it would be better to just use an abandoned classroom (Tom was curiously silent) when Hermione’s eyes glinted in thought.

 

“I have an idea,” she murmured, and both Ron and Harry went quiet. She did not elaborate however, so finally Ron had to speak up.

 

“Are you planning to tell it to us?” he asked. His voice was high enough, that it was obvious that he was trying not to sound whiny.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No. I was planning it to be a big, dark secret, like Harry with his Bulbadox juice. Honestly, Ron. I was just thinking about it.”

 

Another pause now, whilst Harry and Ron waited. Even Tom joined in this time, and Harry had to put up with double the impatience.

 

Finally she spoke. “There’s this bathroom. A girl’s bathroom. It’s never used, there’s never anyone there except for… well… _her.”_

_“Who?”_ Harry and Ron asked together.

 

Hermione looked around nervously as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “Moaning Myrtle. At least, that’s what everyone calls her. She haunts the bathroom there, and well, no one ever goes in. It’d be perfect!”

 

Ron looked horrified. “We can’t go in there. It’s a _girl’s_ bathroom.”

 

“You needn’t worry about it, as I said, no one ever-“

 

Meanwhile, Harry had gone curiously cold, and began to rub at his arms as he absent-mindedly listened to the conversation.

 

“ _You can’t brew the potion in there,”_ Tom whispered to him. Harry noticed then that his entire body felt like lead, his mouth tasted all coppery like… like blood or something and…

 

“ _What’s wrong?”_ he asked, alert for another of Tom’s strange moods. There was no initial response, however. Ron and Hermione continued to quarrel.

 

“ _It’s dangerous,”_ Tom replied, and Harry was filled with a curious frustration. He was almost surprised at it. Yet at the same time, it was irritating, how secretive and moody Tom seemed to be all the time, so restrained and… just well odd. Harry wished that Tom could be more open.

 

“ _It is the basilisk?”_ Harry asked, and felt himself starting to frown. “ _How can a basilisk get around the school anyway? Into a girl’s bathroom?”_

Tom’s voice was clear when he answer. “ _The pipes.”_

Harry looked up at Ron and Hermione then, smiling weakly. “Look,” he said, breaking up their squabble. “It’s getting late. I’m sure we can think about this tomorrow. I’m going to go to bed, if that’s all right…?”

 

Hermione stood at once. “Of course Harry. You’re working too much as it is. Get some sleep.”

 

Ron nodded, and for once, Harry’s friends were perfectly in synch. Of course, it would be in regards to Harry’s health. Of course.

 

He felt Tom smile then, and was subjected to the weak taste of berries mixed in with the coppery taste of blood. It… wasn’t particularly pleasant. But at least Tom was growing to like Harry’s friends. That was something that _did_ please Harry, quite a lot. Everyone seemed to be united in the cause that was Harry’s wellbeing.

 

Nodding at Hermione, and Ron, Harry turned to walk up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. “ _I can understand why you wouldn’t want us to brew the potion at a place the basilisk could get to us,”_ Harry began, a little hesitant. _“But why that particular bathroom? Surely none of the school is safe.”_

Tom’s reply was almost instantaneous. _“There is a safer place. Much safer. The Room of Requirement.“_

_“The room of what?”_

_“A room on the seventh floor. You must pace in front of the entrance three times, wishing for whatever you need, and the door will open to you. Wish for a Potions Lab perhaps.”_

 

So the next morning before class, Harry did just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers. I'm sorry, this chapter had a lot of dialogue. It couldn't be helped, though I did try. More events will occur next chapter! Anyway, thank you for all your kind responses - they're wonderful, truly :) Of course, if any errors are noticed, I would appreciate it if they were shared with me.  
> Love Insidious.


	9. The Deathday Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I do not own Harry Potter, or anything affiliated with it, or its universe, except for my own writings. Some small segments of the following text belongs to Chapter 8 of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, by J.K Rowling.

It had all come down to the same debate again, and Harry was left reeling with the genius of Tom’s idea. And how it had disadvantaged Harry of course. That was the crux of the matter really. It had all begun altruistically enough. Tom had suggested trying the Room of Requirement, which was really too long of a title. Harry had taken to calling it the RoR, pronounced ‘roar’, which, he thought sounded cool. Tom thought it sounded stupid, but as of the past two hours, Harry didn’t care what Tom thought. He’d woken up early, and snuck out of the dormitory so as not to wake anyone. Particularly Ron. He’d made his way to the RoR, which was apparently on the seventh floor of the left corridor, which fortunately wasn’t too far away from Gryffindor tower. Tom had said that it was a convenient room, as it appeared only by virtue of an individual’s desire for it, and its interior also changed based on the same individual’s whim. So it seemed, all in all, a suitable place for creating the Befuddlement Potion. It wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone, because according to Tom, hardly anyone knew of it. The room only appeared if someone wanted it there after all, and if no one knew to want it, no one would. And by virtue of it being inside, the potion wouldn’t be harmed by something as innocuous as the weather, like it could be on the Astronomy Tower. Harry was completely convinced of the RoR’s merits after he’d first seen it; yes, he’d felt distinctly silly marching up and down the corridor three times, repeating ‘ _I want a Potions Lab’_ in his head, but well… After seeing the particular Potions Lab it was worth it.

 

The room was smallish. Cozy. There was a flickering fireplace tucked away in a corner that helped create this effect. On the opposite wall was a series of shelves and nooks that Harry recognised as serving the function of carrying ingredients. Simply creating them was impossible, according to Tom, but storing them once they’d been collected was considerably easier. In the center of the room was a counter, around it three chairs, and a medium sized copper cauldron. It was all very reminiscent of Snape’s dungeon classroom, however, the room was well lit, and the wall opposite the door had a large window from which Harry could see the grounds of Hogwarts, and the early rising sun. It did not in any way create the same claustrophobic effect.

 

So Harry had been about to race back to his dormitory, and tell Ron all about the RoR. Then before heading off to breakfast (he was quite ravenous by this time), they’d inform Hermione. Then that afternoon after classes, or mayhaps during lunch if they found time, Harry would show them the RoR together. That was until…

 

“ _No.”_

A simple order really. But for Harry, who was by then currently hurrying down an empty corridor, it was a literal punch to the gut. His feet skidded across the floor as he came to a slow stop, gasping, and he had to ask, he had to repeat:

 

“ _No?”_

_“I don’t want anyone to know about the Room of Requirement except for you, Harry.”_

Harry was silent for a moment. He bit his bottom lip, eyes flicking from side to side as he stood, staring sightlessly at the floor. Then it came to him.

 

“ _You set me up!”_ Harry accused, completely and utterly surprised. For the moment, his shock at the discovery prevented any form of anger or indignation. “ _You wanted me to use the RoR, so that I couldn’t tell Hermione and Ron, and by extension, include them in the Befuddlement Potion.”_

“ _It’s the Room of Requirement,”_ Tom sighed as wearily as Harry had ever heard him. _“Your constant comparison of it with African animal noises is doing my head in.”_

Harry was well trained. “ _Don’t stall. It’s childish.”_

How he loved that golden, summer laughter of Tom’s, which flitted about it seemed like sundust. It was magnificent really, whenever it occurred. Even now, when he was trying to ignore it and summon up annoyance instead. It was very hard to be angry with Tom.

 

“ _Harry…”_ Tom exhaled. Tom often said Harry’s name like that. All slow and quiet, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Or him. “ _Harry, you know how I feel on this matter.”_

Harry finally managed to summon up some feeling, even if a third of it was touched gratitude. He tried to squash that part down (but it was hard to, when he knew that someone actually _cared_ about him, cared so much that this gigantic _terror_ simply threatened to overthrow them, to drown them, and it was hard to actually believe that _Tom_ felt that, he did, Harry knew it because he could _feel_ it, and he felt it too and-) and succeeded a little bit. He burst out “ _I know and you’re being ridiculous Tom. You are. Don’t argue with me. I already spoke to you about this. They are my friends. If I trust them, you need to trust them too. It’s not like I’m telling them about you. On their side, all it looks like is that I have a new, strange obsession with potions, which in reality, makes sense completely because of Snape. My other points are: I will feel safer if I can spend more time with them. Because I know that they will be safe. I will feel lonely if I can’t spend time with them. And sad. And if I’m sad, you’re sad, and I know that you’ve been manipulating me with your emotions so I don’t see why I can’t manipulate you with_ mine, _so-“_

_“All right Harry,”_ Tom laughed again, wearily and golden like a firefly at night. Just one. Just one surrounded by all the darkness and shadow in the world. Hardly there even. Small. Tiny. But beautiful all the same. “ _You’re right. Of course you are.”_

So Harry practically skipped (although he called it walking, because mature twelve year olds don’t skip) down the corridor back to his dormitory, to wake Ron and tell him all about RoR. And then they informed Hermione, before heading down to breakfast because he was simply _ravenous_ by then. And when Tom made a quiet “ _please be careful”,_ Harry almost scoffed, but then he decided no, he wouldn’t. He gave a mental nod instead, and wondered why his morning scone tasted so much more powerfully of raspberry jam than what he’d scraped onto it with his butter knife.

 

However, simply because Harry was busy trying to save the school from a giant snake, did not mean that Oliver Wood was going to let him skip Quidditch training. For the past week, the stormy weather had been handy, in that Harry had had excuses to stay inside, and the sound of heavy rainfall on the castle windows helped him to focus on bland potions texts. But that did not prevent Harry from cursing that very same weather as he returned to Gryffindor tower the next day, after Quidditch practise, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. Tom too, who could feel most of the sensations that Harry could, was not happy at all. Even without the rain, it had not been a very good session: Tom insisted on stubbornly despising every moment, which brought Harry’s mood down, enough so that even if he saw the snitch, it was hard to actually summon the motivation to try to catch it.

 

It had been after around twenty minutes of this that Wood had called him out on it.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” The Quidditch Captain had asked with his usual bluntness. But it was kind and well-meant, and made Harry almost shake with frustration at the way Tom was acting.

 

“I’m all right,” he replied, knowing even as he said it that Wood wouldn’t buy for an instant. “Really. I’m just tired today.”

 

Wood’s brow creased with concern. “All right, Harry. If you say so. But rest up, would you? I don’t want you falling off your broom or anything.”

 

Harry had grinned at that.

 

Eventually Harry and Tom had come to some sort of compromise. Harry couldn’t stop flying. Tom couldn’t stop hating it. So by the end of the session, Harry had managed to create some sort of semblance of a glass wall, so that Tom wouldn’t have to deal with the sensation of the air against Harry’s face, or the wind grabbing at his hair. It was difficult; Harry barely moved all the rest of the practise session. Wood had drawn the rest of the team into a drill while Harry was left to his own devices, so it wasn’t too obvious (although Angelina Johnson petted his hair asking if he was okay afterwards, which was _uncomfortable,_ and both he and Tom hoped she wouldn’t ever do it again). Harry didn’t attempt the stone wall, like he had tried to before when attempting to hide his emotions. He instead imagined just a barrier, invisible, barely there even, but just there enough that Tom’s irritation wouldn’t filter through to him, and Harry’s flying wouldn’t filter through to Tom.

 

It was tiring. It was exhausting. And Tom received those feelings too. But by the time the practise was over, it had worked very, very slightly.

 

So now, drenched and feeling very corpse-like, Harry was returning to Gryffindor corridor late on Thursday evening after Quidditch Practise. Tom was also very corpse-like, and was annoyed about it, and the construction of Harry’s glass wall had also served to make Tom conflicted. Tom hated the idea that Harry would create a barrier between them, although he hated the idea of Quidditch almost just as much. Harry, when he heard this, had told him to stop being stupid, and to just be grateful that Harry was willing to expend the effort. Tom was annoyed at this too. Harry knew this because his mouth tasted like something had died in it. As he walked, he theorised that no amount of glass would stop _that_ from getting through. So of course he hardly noticed Nearly Headless Nick. Harry was far too busy feeling sorry for himself for that. But when he did eventually notice the ghost, it was the murmuring that he did notice. Looking up, Harry saw Nearly Headless Nick staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath.

“Hello, Nick,” Harry said. Tom wondered aloud (inside Harry’s head of course) why he had greeted the ghost at all. Harry ignored Tom, who was in a very bad mood, and therefore hated Harry moving, let alone being sociable.

“Hello hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking around. The ghost wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.

 

“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

 

“So do you,” said Harry, not feeling particularly willing to share his worries with the ghost. His feet bounced with Tom’s desire to leave.

 

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no importance. . . . It’s not as though I really wanted to join. . . . Thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements’ —” In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face. “But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”

 

“Oh — yes,” said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree.

 

 _“Harry, I am not in the mood for this!”_ Tom actually groaned, a sound of complaint that shocked Harry to the core. Tom was sarcastic, dry, often resigned, refined, polished, with an air of childishness around him that sometimes broke though what Harry thought of as his ‘old man’ exterior. Such was this moment. “ _Can’t you just go back to the Gryffindor dormitory?”_

A brief wave of amusement rippled across Harry’s psyche. “ _So you finally admit it… Red and orange aren’t ugly colours!”_

The exasperation that Tom projected then almost made Harry topple over, even as Sir Nicholas continued to talk. “I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However —” Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:

 

_“ ‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have_

_parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate_

_that it would be impossible otherwise for members to_

_participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-_

_Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret,_

_therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill_

_our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir_

_Patrick Delaney-Podmore.’ ”_

 

 

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away, whilst Tom, having had enough of everything, was wondering whether to dissolve into laughter or dramatic sobbing.

 

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Harry said to the both of them.

 

“I appreciate that Harry, I do,” the ghost said, who obviously didn’t believe a word Harry had said. “But you must understand - Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! Most people would think that’s good and beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore.”

 

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, “So — what’s bothering you? Anything I can do?”

 

“ _Yes, go and offer support to the hyperbolic ghost, why don’t you,”_ said Tom childishly. Harry told him so, and his friend scoffed, and began to sulk. He only sulked harder when Harry told him that too.

 

“Nothing,” Harry smiled, feeling much better. Tom’s sulking meant the man had hidden himself away behind his wall again, and with Harry’s newly implemented glass wall, he almost felt like himself again. “Just tired, really. Quidditch practice didn’t go very well, but it-“

 

The rest of Harry’s sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

 

“You’d better get out of here, Harry,” said Sir Nicholas quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place —”

 

“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Harry’s right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

 

“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”

 

It was that at this point that Tom returned to a conscious state of awareness of Harry’s surroundings. His exasperation tasted like overly sweet cake icing, the kind that made you nauseous.

 

“ _Oh Harry,”_ the man murmured. “ _Tonight is_ not _going well, is it? Would you like me to take care of it?”_

“ _What?”_ Harry mumbled, a thrill of fear shooting up his spinal cord. “ _What do you mean?”_

_“I can possess you,”_ Tom replied slowly, obviously aware of Harry’s uneasiness at the idea. “ _And I can get away from Filch so that we don’t have to deal with this.”_

Harry hesitated but only for a moment. The idea of spending the rest of the evening in Filch’s office (and he was still covered with wet mind, mind you) was rather horrific. Much more than the thought of losing control over his own movements again. And this time it was his decision.

 

Tom’s presence crept over him like the Invisibility Cloak, or perhaps it was more like the Disillusionment Charm he’d used at the Dursleys. Harry could feel the foreign sensation of someone else’s control over his body, and just as it had been the last two times, it was strange. Too strange. Cool, and unlike the Disillusionment Charm, uncomfortable, alien now that he was aware of it enough to notice. His arm was creeping into his robe pocket, but every sensation on the skin, whether it be the smoothness of his wand or the fabric of his robes, came as a surprise. And after grabbing the wand, his arm was raised, a breath taken, his mouth moved, his voice uttered.

 

“Obliviate.”

 

The tip of his wand glowed a pale green. Filch’s face blanked out, the eyes seeming to shutter.

 

And then he was running, although Harry hadn’t planned that either. No, he was questing after Tom, curious and slightly scared, but too curious for that, yes, Harry wanted to _know._

 

“You can cast spells!” He gasped out, aloud, and covered with his mouth quickly, looking around in case he’d been overheard. He was closer to Gryffindor Tower now, and it was much more likely that he’d be overheard.

 

Suddenly, Nearly Headless Nick appeared, his pearly presence appearing like a moon when a cloud gives way. His face spoke clearly of pleased surprise.

 

“Obliviate!” The ghost exclaimed, obviously awed. “Second year and performing a Memory Charm! Not even the Dark Lord was capable of that I tell you!”

 

Harry looked up at that. “You knew Voldemort? But… he was in Slytherin, of course! You’re a ghost!”  


If anything Sir Nicholas looked almost embarrassed. “Oh I shouldn’t have said that. I should _not_ have said that. My apologies, Harry. Perhaps I’d best be going. You’d much rather go back to your dormitory, and get warm, yes?”

 

“Wait!” The ghost had been fading, the white glow becoming dim, but at Harry’s shout, it stopped.

 

Harry took a deep breath. “Please. I don’t know anything about him. He killed my parents. Please, just… what was he like?”

 

Nearly Headless Nick looked torn for a moment, before he moved closer. Or perhaps drifted was a better word. Or floated. “We’re really not supposed to speak too much of the past. But… this _is_ a special circumstance. Perhaps…”. A moment of silence, and Harry wasn’t breathing (but that was odd, it wasn’t his idea to hold his breath, how strange and indeed, it felt like his entire body was wired, impatient and anxious and-) “This Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

 

“Oh,” said Harry, not sure whether he should look sorry or happy about this. “Right.”

 

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the country. If you came, I’d tell you more about… You Know What. Mr Weasley and Miss Granger would be very welcome of course. Very welcome. That would perhaps be a better time to tell you about things that shouldn’t be spoken of,” St Nick nodded to himself sternly.

 

Harry hesitated for only a moment, but his curiosity won out. “Yes! Of course. Please.”

 

“Good, good. It will be curfew soon enough, and performing another Memory Charm on Filch might be too much, even for you, Harry.” The ghost looked away for a moment, beginning to fidget and still nodding. “Yes, yes, that’s a much better idea. You should go to bed now, Harry. Now, yes, off to bed. Filch will be here soon.”

 

The ghost faded away completely then, and Harry’s entire frame relaxed, as if he’d been hanging on tenterhooks the entire conversation, which was _ridiculous, why would_ that _be?_ But then he heard Filch’s footsteps and Harry hurried off to Gryffindor Tower, hoping that if he attended St Nick’s deathday party, that he would truly be able to learn something valuable. About Voldemort.

 

It was only when he lay down to sleep, warm and comfortable for the first time in hours that it occurred to Harry that he could ask about _anyone or anything._ Even his parents. Even the Chamber of Secrets. Even the banning of the Befuddlement Potion, if he was truly curious. Absolutely anything.

 

He was so tremendously warm, tucked up in bed in his room. Rain battered the window beside Harry’s bed, and it was sending him to sleep, a crooning lullaby almost. He just wished that Tom wasn’t so cold.

 

 

*

 

“Five hundredth deathday?” Ron asked disbelievingly. “You wouldn’t think they’d celebrate that, would you?”

 

They were walking down to Hagrid’s Hut, the rain having abated for that afternoon after class. They wanted to see if Hagrid had access to some of the ingredients they couldn’t get from Snape. Harry had just finished recounting what had occurred yesterday evening, and had asked if his friends would like to come.

 

“I never thought I’d be invited to one,” Hermione murmured excitedly. “They’re famously exclusive you know.”

 

“Really?” Ron’s brow wrinkled: a common expression on him. “Why would anyone want to go to one of those?”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “To experience something new? To learn something?”

 

“it certainly sounds interesting,” Harry said dubiously. “But well… the reason he asked was because I wanted to know about Voldemort.”

 

Ron flinched. “You Know Who? Why were you asking about _him?”_

“But that’s ingenious Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “Why hadn’t I thought of that? How much knowledge must those ghosts have, attained over the centuries... Oh we have to go!”

 

“And miss the Halloween Feast?” Ron gave a small mewl of discontent.

 

“Honestly Ronald, one would think you’d never eaten in your life!”

 

“Yeah, yeah…”

 

Harry was relieved to reach the wooden hut of his friend; Ron and Hermione’s arguing was getting a little much for even him. He knocked on the door three times, and called out: “Hagrid, are you there?”

 

From within, they could hear the sudden clatter of metal pans, before the groundskeeper replied. “Harry? Is that yeh?” There was the sudden sound of heavy footsteps and the scraping of a chair. “Jus’ a momen’!” Suddenly the door opened wide and Hagrid’s beaming face appeared. “Why it is yeh! And Hermione, Ron. Thought yeh’d never come, I did. Well come in, come in - It mus’ be freezin’ out there.”

 

It wasn't quite freezing, but the air was rather chilly. Especially in contrast to the almost blazing warmth that greeted the trio, that is, the trio and Tom, when they went inside. There was a crackling fire in the small fireplace, upon which Hagrid had obviously been cooking his dinner, if the smell of a hearty meat stew meant anything. From the ceiling hung the usual oddities, although it was some relief to see that there was no evidence of any illegal dragon eggs. Fang lay snug on a large armchair facing the fireplace, and raised his head when the three walked in before lowering it again, and closing his eyes.

 

The sight of it all was tremendously calming; despite it being nearly the end of October, Harry still hadn’t visited Hagrid. He’d been so very busy really, and the whole fact of Tom’s existence had made everything go topsy turvy. Now looking at Hagrid’s ruddy face and his eyes, all crinkled with happiness at their presence, it seemed everything was right again, even if just for a moment.

 

“Hello, Hagrid,” he said, smiling widely. “We’re sorry we haven’t visited. How are you?”

 

Hermione, Ron and Harry went to sit at the round, wooden table whilst Hagrid dislodged Fang so that he could sit down on the armchair. The dog released a deep rumble, before curling up at Hagrid’s feet, fast asleep again.

 

“Not bad. My pumpkins having bin growing splendid; they’re fer the Halloween Feast, though Professor Flitwick is gonna come down ter to charm ‘em. There’s bin some more work in the fores’ ‘though.”

 

“Oh?” said Hermione, looking curiously up at Hagrid. “Is it to do with magical creatures?”

 

Hagrid nodded, looking pensively down at Fang. “The acromantula colony have bin acting real odd, lately. Not that I talk to ‘em, or anythin’. Jus’ lookin’ at the signs, an’ all. ‘spect it’ll pass soon enough.”

 

Ron swallowed, his freckled face looking queasy. “Acromantula colony?” the boy repeated faintly. “In the forest?”

 

Hagrid nodded more cheerfully. “Yeh, we’re very lucky to have ‘em. They hun’ some o’ the nastier critters.”

 

Harry looked down at the wooden surface of the table, tracing the swirls with his eyes. Tom was feeling nervous. Out of sorts. He was curious as to why, but it was making it hard to listen to the conversation, with his skin crawling slightly at every word Hagrid spoke, with his insides circling at every mention of an acromantula colony. He didn’t even know what that _meant._ He closed his eyes, and tried to put the glass wall up again, imagined it forming under his touch and blocking every unpleasant feeling.

 

He opened his eyes. “Hagrid…” He looked up again. “What are acromantulas?”

 

Hermione replied, her skin almost as pale as Ron’s. “They’re giant spiders.” She grimaced. “Extremely dangerous.”

 

Hagrid smiled slightly. “They’re good at heart, really, though the younger ones are a bit more territorial. Bes’ not yeh run into ‘em. They don’ like strangers too much.”

 

“Don’t like strangers?” Ron whispered. His eyes were wide and frightened.

 

“Right,” said Harry, mouth quirking at the obvious divide in opinion. “Well we’re trying to make a potion, just for fun of course. But we’re having trouble with some of the ingredients. You wouldn’t have access to any flobberworm mucus would you?”

 

Hagrid’s brow crinkled. “Flobberworm mucus? Having trouble sleepin’ are yeh?”

 

Hermione perked up. “We’re brewing this potion called the Befuddlement Potion that Harry found in the library. It’s supposed to be quite difficult, but we’ve been studying it for almost a month now, and I’m sure it’s possible.”

 

Hagrid seemed speechless. Harry’s entire body tensed, and was left vibrating with the remains of Tom’s anger. It broke through his glass wall as easily as a sunbeam.

 

“ _I knew it I knew it I knew it. Why did you have to_ tell _them now-“_

“The Befuddlement Potion,” Hagrid repeated, looking flabbergasted. “Why yeh tryin’ to make a thing like that? When I was at Hogwarts some Slytherin was testin’ it out on other studen’s. That was when…” He trailed off, seemingly lost in memory. “Well, anyway. I’ve got flobberworm mucus in spades if yeh really wan’ some, but are yeh sure about that potion? I’m sure it was banne’ in my time.”

 

“Banned?” Hermione echoed. “Harry, did you know about this?”

 

His head spinning from Tom’s emotions, and his mouth dry with the horrible flavour of it, Harry could barely muster up the needed facial expression. But he did it somehow.

 

“No,” he shook his head, eyes wide. “I had no idea. Was it really, Hagrid?”

 

“Yeh,” Hagrid nodded. “A Slytherin foun’ out about it – someone was usin’ it to do all kin’s of terrible things. A Prefect he was. What was his name, again? A young Tom Riddle, if I remember.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. “ _Tom. Tom, was that you? Is that your name? Tom Riddle? You went to school with Hagrid? Why didn’t you tell me?”_

“You mean a Slytherin Prefect was using it on students?” Hermione asked, looking horrified. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be making it, Harry.”

 

Ron was shaking his head. “Slytherins. It’s always them, somehow.”

 

Hagrid looked affronted. “Oh no. Tom repor’ed it to Dippe’ - he was the Headmaster at the time, see. Tom always mean’ well he did. A good frien’ he was. ‘till, well…”

 

Harry was listening in abject wonder. Tom had attended Hogwarts. That meant that people had _known_ Tom, had spoken to him, why, Tom had spoken to _them._ But why then, was Tom so afraid and angry, so frustrated and irritated?  


“ _What’s wrong?”_ he murmured, trying to comfort instead of block now.

 

“ _Everything, everything is all wrong, it’s_ everything, _Harry, Harry, all wrong, all wrong,”_ the words seemed to blur, and meld together until all Harry could hear was a cacophony of voices all at once, saying his name, and hurting.

 

“ _Sh…”_ He crooned, trying to project his wonder into the link. He battered at every barrier, every wall that had been built up, and infringed right into where Tom was, so that nothing was left untouched. “ _Tom, it’s all right. Everything is all right.”_

The visit didn’t continue for much longer after that. Hagrid gave them a small jar of Flobberworm Mucus, which was quite possibly the most disgusting thing that Harry had ever seen. Hermione was very conflicted about the possible construction of the Befuddlement Potion, but using some illogical logic, Harry had managed to convince her.

 

“It’s not like we purposely tried to break the school rules,” he’d said. “Plus we’ve already spent a month planning. It’s not like we have to use kt anyway. It’s for the experience, more than anything. Learning something new.”

 

Hermione had still been worried, but then Ron had dived in and saved Harry. “I know you don’t want to get in trouble Hermione, but it’s fine. We’re using the RoR, so no one will be able to come in and interrupt us. And even if they did find the RoR, what’s the likelihood of them wanting a Potions Lab? We’re fine!”

 

Tom, who had been eerily silent the entire journey back to Gryffindor Tower finally spoke then, much to Harry’s relief. _“The Room of Requirement! Not this strange title you've invented. You’ve tainted your friends, Harry.”_

Harry ignored him and instead asked, “ _Are you all right? I was worried about you.”_

There was a small murmur of assent, but nothing else.

 

Harry hesitated, before asking again. “ _Tom…”_

_“Yes Harry?”_

_“Strange things keep setting you off. Everything will be absolutely fine, and then something will make you terrified, or furious, and… And I’m really worried about you.”_

_“Harry…”_ There it was. That same sigh of Harry’s name, the same one that no one else ever seemed to make. A sigh of affection, one of bewilderment, of resignation, of sadness. “ _There is no need. I am fine.”_

Harry scoffed, though he didn’t continue to pester his friend. The next time it happened though (and he already knew there’d definitely be a _next time),_ hell would freeze over before he stopped asking questions.

_*_

 

By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting his decision to attend the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

He was curious about Voldemort’s past yes, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that it probably wouldn’t be wise to go seeking after secret knowledge. It was strange however, this sudden hesitation. He’d been so curious before, but now it felt like his entire being was filled up with reluctance and even a small measure of fear. But of course, nothing would stop Hermione when she was curious.

 

“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Harry bossily. “You said you’d go to the deathday party.”

 

So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

 

“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

 

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased you could come. . . .” He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

 

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

 

“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his feet.

 

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron nervously, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

 

“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly. “Turn back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning Myrtle —”

 

To Harry’s surprise, his feet started walking the other way instantly, as if some kind of barrier surrounded the young ghost girl.

 

“ _Tom”_ he hissed. “ _I thought we spoke about this. Didn’t we?”_

_“Not technically.”_ Tom sounded breathless. “ _But you really don’t want to meet her Harry. I remember her when I went to Hogwarts.”_  
  


_“As a ghost?”_ Harry asked curiously.

 

Tom didn’t have the time to answer. Ron’s voice called out excitedly, “Look, food”

 

Harry turned. On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words:

 

 

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON

DIED 31ST OCTOBER, 1492

 

 

 

Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

 

“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked eagerly. Tom too, was curious, if the sudden whiff of caramel surrounding him was anything to go by. His stomach rumbled.

“Almost,” the ghost replied sadly.

 _“I suspect that is why the food is rotting,”_ Tom murmured. _“A stronger taste, I think.”_

 _“Right,”_ Harry murmured, grimacing. “ _Delicious.”_

“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron.

 

“It could just be you feeling hungry,” said Hermione knowledgably. “It’s been known to cause nausea.”

 

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s the rotting foot.”

 

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.

 

“Enjoying yourselves?”

 

“Oh, yes,” they lied.

 

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent. . . . It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go and warn the orchestra. . . .”

 

“Nick,” Harry said quickly, before the ghost could turn away. “I was wondering… that is… could you tell me more about Voldemort?”

 

Ron and Hermione gazed up at the ghost with interest.

 

Nearly Headless Nick’s expression turned mournful. “Ah yes, what a tragedy that was. Such a young, bright boy. So very courteous to the ghosts you know. Not to me, but Helena was telling me all about it one day. How long ago was that, I wonder?”

 

Meanwhile, the air had gained a frostiness to it that made Harry shiver even more so than before. The smell of rotting food, already making him nauseous, was very powerful all of a sudden as well. But before Nearly Headless Nick could continue, the orchestra stopped playing. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement as a hunting horn sounded.

 

“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.

 

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.

 

*

 

Sir Patrick, it seemed to Harry after he’d successfully stolen all attention from poor Nearly Headless Nick, wasn’t a very thoughtful ghost. The Gryffindor Ghost stared mournfully as all of his guests watched with excitement the showing off of the Headless Hunt.

 

Hermione sniffed. “How horrible! We should go over to him.”

 

“Are you sure?” Ron asked, looking hesitant. “Perhaps we’d better leave him. I don’t know about you, but I’m really starving.”

 

“I’ll go,” said Harry, already moving over to the ghost. “Go save me a seat at the feast.”

 

“Are you sure, Harry?”

 

“Yes, really, I’m fine.”

 

Despite the terrible smell and the chill, which seemed was only getting worse with time, Harry approached Nearly Headless Nick, trying to offer a comforting smile.

 

“Hello again, Nick.”

 

The ghost looked at Harry then, and smiled back. “It seems we are back again to the same problems of before.” It wasn’t a very happy smile, but Harry thought it was better than nothing.

 

“Yes. Um, about that… You were telling me before, about Voldemort?”

 

Nearly Headless Nick’s smile vanished, to be replaced a grave expression. “Yes, I was. You really ought to call him by his name, however.”

 

And Harry was opening his mouth to ask what exactly that name was, when very different words came out. He blinked, afterwards shocked.

 

“The Chamber of Secrets?” Nearly Headless Nick blinked back, just as surprised. “Where did you hear about that?”

 

“I… um…” and then more words were coming out of his mouth, more words that he didn’t mean to say. “Would you tell me about Salazar Slytherin?”

 

“Slytherin?” the ghost repeated. “You’re much better off asking the Bloody Baron about that. Though you don’t think I’m _that_ old, do you? Harry, the Founders were born a thousand years ago. This is my five hundredth deathday, remember?”

 

“What? Yes, I know.” Harry swallowed, feeling increasingly confused. In fact, the entire room seemed to be spinning, and he had no idea what he was asking about.

 

“ _Tom?”_ he asked, wanting assistance. “ _Tom, what am I doing here?”_

Tom’s voice when it came was soft, so very gentle. A wave of warmth seemed to cradle Harry then, protecting him from the coldness of the room. The smell of rot was already fast disappearing, to be replaced with honey and raspberries and… and sherbet. That was odd. Had the ghosts brought out human food? Or perhaps Professor Dumbledore had decided to pay a visit.

 

“ _You want to know about the Founders, remember?”_

Harry nodded, already feeling better. “Yes, yes of course. But surely you know even a little?”

 

Nearly Headless Nick smiled, drawing himself up in apparent confidence. “Why I guess I do know _some_ things. Us Gryffindors need to stick together! Now if I remember correctly… Salzard Slytherin made the Chamber of Secrets because he refused to teach those who were impure of blood, of course.”

 

Harry nodded, a star pupil. The same golden warmth was filling him up from the inside out, so he almost glowed with it. “But why?”

 

“Why?” The ghost blanched for a moment. “Because it was those times. No Statue of Secrecy or anything like that. I remember what it was like in _my_ days.” Nick paused for a moment, clearly reminiscing. “The muggles simply _hated_ us. They thought we’d all go and murder them in their beds, and so they murdered the lot of us. Why, a muggle beheaded me, you know. Who else uses an axe?” There was another silence, as the ghost paused in recollection.

 

“Well I imagine Slytherin simply felt the same. Muggles were dangerous back in those days, and one can understand why one wouldn’t want to teach the offspring of your enemy.”

 

“But muggles aren’t our enemies, anymore,” Harry argued.

 

Nearly Headless Nick nodded absently, clearly growing tired of the conversation. His gaze was back on Sir Patrick, who was flirting with a simpering female ghost Harry had never seen before.

 

“But Slytherin isn’t alive anymore,” the ghost replied. “He doesn’t know that.”

 

Harry wasn’t able to glean much more information off the ghost, though he still found it horrifying that a basilisk would target muggleborn students based on witch trials that had occurred a millennium ago. He made his way back to the feast, wondering if Hermione and Ron had waited for him at all.

 

And that was when he heard it.

_“Rip… tear… kill…”_

Harry stumbled to a halt, feeling panic begin to claw up in his chest like some wild, frantic beast. Not again, he thought. Not again.

 

“What do I do?” he muttered out loud, both to himself and Tom. “What do I do!”

The voice continued. _“...so hungry… for so long…”_ Harry froze, utterly. “. _.. kill… time to kill…”_ The voice was growing fainter now, and seemed to be moving upwards. Harry stared at the dark ceiling. The basilisk he knew was moving through the pipes, a dark phantom sent to menace the school. He made his decision, and ran after the voice.

 _“Stop,”_ he heard Tom snap, loudly. “ _Stop, what are you doing following it, Harry_?” Tom sounded terrified.

But Harry ignored him, hurtling around the whole of the second floor, not stopping until he turned a corner into the last, deserted passageway, chest heaving. Something was shining on the wall ahead. Harry approached it slowly, ignoring Tom’s angry urgences. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

 

And underneath, hanging by her tail from the torch bracket, was Mrs Norris.

 _“Harry,”_ said Tom urgently. _“Harry you must leave here. If anyone sees you, they will assume… they will accuse you.”_

Harry didn’t need to listen twice. He pulled his cloak from his school bag, cast it over himself and trotted away up to the seventh floor, vision blank except for that bloody image of the writing, and Flich’s beloved, petrified cat. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Now he only wanted to continue the potion.

 

Tom didn’t try to stop him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small discoveries for Harry. These will continue. Thank you so much for all of your support, readers. When I had a bad day, I literally just read your comments. Good coping strategy? I think so too :) Any other news to report, is that I've literally spent the whole week imagining Diary!Tom and Harry's conversations. I hate myself for torturing myself. I really do.  
> Seeing you soon,  
> Love Insidious
> 
> PS: I edited best as I could, but the likelihood is that there will be something. There always is, it seems. I will fix anything as fast as I can, if anyone sees anything wrong spelling-wise or otherwise.


	10. A Gringotts Vault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everyone. I am so sorry for my absence! Please forgive me - I've been terribly busy and have had trouble finding time to finish this chapter. I hope you still actually want to read this! Finally, Chapter 10 'A Gringotts Vault' awaits.

 

It was a strange sort of compulsion that drew him toward the library instead of the potions lab. A craving for knowledge that left him almost breathless.

 

He walked over to a table near a fogged up window. There was no rain today, and through the glass Harry could see the icy mist that rolled through along the Hogwarts grounds hinting at the emergence of November. He placed his hand upon the glass. The chill had helped take away the heat in his cheeks, the strange buzzing in his ears.

 

“ _Harry?”_ Tom asked, the grassy scent of his confusion in Harry’s head. “ _Don’t you need to go to the Room of Requirement?”_

 

Yes. He did. But he couldn’t. He shook his head, feeling dazed and walked over to the library shelves after placing his possessions down on the table. He found a shelf labelled ‘ _Hogwarts Archives 990AD-1945AD’_ , and in it, a box of papers from the 40s. When the Chamber of Secrets had last been opened, fifty years ago he knew.

 

And although Harry really should’ve been on his way to the RoR, where he knew Ron was grinding Rhinoceros horn, and Hermione was carefully collating the Passionflower petals from Professor Sprout’s store, Harry was… he was curious, for lack of a better word.

Sitting back with his face to the smoky glass, Harry’s fingertips ghosted over the tired parchment, eyes skirting over the old calligraphic writing from so long ago. _The founders… The Chamber of Secrets…_ The words from the blood from the writing on the wall seemed to echo inside of him. And he read.

 

It was many hours later that his friends found him, nearly buried within the library’s shelves.

 

“Harry…” Hermione murmured, coming towards him. She looked at the newspaper fragment that Harry gazed at, barely acknowledging her presence.

 

“Fifty years ago? Why are you researching that, Harry?”

 

Harry didn’t reply. His mind was awhirl, reading the words over and over.

 

**_Strange happenings at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry have allegedly caused the Headmaster, Professor Dippet to consider closing the school early. This includes the death of fourteen-year-old Myrtle Warren, under mysterious circumstances. It still remains to be seen whether the school will open for 1944-45. If it does, parents must consider if it will be safe for their children after the events of this year._ **

****

This was when the Heir of Slytherin opened the Chamber fifty years ago, Harry thought to himself. Tom had mentioned this; the same person who had imprisoned Tom’s soul in a diary just so that he could open it again. But… he found the paper, an old copy of the Daily Prophet dated a month later.

 

**_Word has it that Headmaster Dippet of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has decided to keep the school open, after the expulsion of third year Rubeus Hagrid. The recent injuries and one death have been attributed to the young Acromantula the boy was hiding at the school. Reports have said the boy was raising werewolf cubs under his bed, and regularly went to the Forbidden Forest to meet with trolls. Fifth year Prefect Tom Riddle has won an award for Special Services to the School for his identifying of the boy’s activities. Professor Dumbledore however, proposedly intervened, arguing that the death of fourteen-year-old Myrtle Warren was an accident, allowing the culprit to stay on the school grounds as Groundskeeper…_ **

****

They were papers dated for 1943, and Harry stared blankly at them.

 

“Harry, mate? What is it?” It was Ron’s voice this time, and it was soft, as if speaking to a fragile thing. He slowly handed the piece of paper open to his friends, face carefully blank.

 

“ _Hagrid is not the Heir of Slytherin,”_ he told Tom. “ _Why did you accuse him? The monster of the Chamber is a basilisk. It_ couldn’t _have been him.”_

_“I know that now,”_ Tom responded, all glassy. “ _But at the time I had no idea of who the true Heir was.”_

_“Who was it? Who did this to you?”_

“Do you think…” Hermione asked him pensively. “Harry, do you think this happened before? Fifty years ago in 1943?”

“What!” Ron exclaimed. “Hagrid’s not the Heir of Slytherin! Knowing Malfoy, it’d be a snake or something going around and petrifying people’s cats.”

 

“You’re right,” said Hermione slowly, while Harry tried not to scream at their ignorance, even whilst knowing it wasn’t their fault. “But Myrtle… That’s Moaning Myrtle!! We could ask her. And we could ask Hagrid about this Tom Riddle person. He… was the person who apparently found out about illicit use of the Befuddlement Potion. That’s a little odd, isn’t it?”

 

“ _That information is irrelevant,”_ came Tom’s flat voice. All walled off within his irritating fortress because he wouldn't tell Harry anything when it counted. Nothing. “ _All we need to do is get the diary now. There is no need for all this research. I don’t understand why…”_

“He sounds like a real Slytherin to me,” said Ron. “I bet he was the one using the Befuddlement Potion out on students. Probably first year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs too. Maybe _he’s_ the Heir.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione replied. “He would be in his sixties now, probably living in a nice little cottage on the English coast. Have you ever met anyone named Riddle? No, it has to be someone who has a definite family line.”

 

“Riddle doesn’t sound like a Wizarding name, that’s true,” Ron said.

 

Harry rubbed his eyes, listening and wishing he could spill out everything, all the knowledge he already possessed but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. This was all meaningless, they should be doing the Potion but he needed… he needed…

 

“Harry I think we probably should go to bed. It’s really late. I don’t know why you didn’t come to the Room of Requirement with us, but I don’t think all this research about the Chamber is healthy. We’re students. Not teachers,” Hermione’s voice came softly. Carefully.

 

“ _You’re_ saying that? Really, Hermione?” asked Ron in a whisper. The library was darkening, and they were the only ones left.

 

Harry didn’t reply. He was researching. Hours passed.

 

“ _Please stop this.”_

“Harry…”

“Leave me alone. I need to research.”

 

“Harry, it’s past midnight! We’re all scared of what’s happened but you don’t need to take it upon yourself!” Hermione’s face was grey with exhaustion, her bushy hair a tangled mess. She rested her head in her hands; her elbows were positioned the library table beside Ron, who was dozing, his cheek laid on a History book that Harry had discarded an hour ago.

 

Opposite them, Harry sat with his nose touching the page of the ancient tome he’d found after scouring for it in the library. He was positively cocooned by the tall piles of books that surrounded him, and in the darkness of the library, his friends' faces seemed like pale smears.

 

Harry wasn’t paying much attention to them however. His eyes scanned the small words of the book he’d found:

**_…Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it…_ **

****

But he already knew all this. Tom had told Harry about the basilisk _weeks_ ago; it was unbearably frustrating that no matter how hard he looked, he could not find any more information.

 

“ _Harry,”_ Tom murmured to him. It was only then that Harry realised he hadn’t answered Hermione. He looked up, but only saw the dark outline of her bushy hair against the wooden table. She was fast asleep; how much time had passed?

 

“ _Tom?”_ He said, blinking as if from a daze. “ _What time is it?”_

_“Far past the time that you should be asleep! Why haven’t you been listening to me?”_

Harry shook his head, glancing down at the grainy image of the page. He could barely make out the words it was so dark. “ _You don’t understand. I_ must _research. I have to, the basilisk and the Chamber, I can’t stop I-“_

He stopped. He could hardly speak coherently it seemed. His entire being seemed to ache with exhaustion, but after Halloween, after that night, he couldn’t stop. Harry had to research, he had to know everything, he had to ask questions and look. And the strange thing too was that he could always taste the faint sweetness of sherbet, alongside the bloody tang of Tom’s worry for him in the days that had passed. But if Tom was so upset with him, why would Harry taste sherbet?

 

“ _Harry,”_ Tom interrupted his thoughts. Although his body ached, his mind blazed with energy, a kind of ceaseless buzzing that had taken over him since that night. “ _Harry you need to_ sleep. _Please, just…”_ Harry felt the stormy wave that was Tom’s despair (and even guilt?) but he knew that Tom was only sharing that because he wanted Harry to sleep. It suddenly occurred to Harry then; could emotions be constructed? He didn't think so… But it was always possible. He had the sudden idea to experiment. But only after researching about the Chamber of Secrets and the Founders of course.

_“How will you create the Befuddlement Potion if you haven’t slept?”_ Tom tried again.

 

Harry conjured a small light to hover over the yellowed pages, not even bothering to touch his wand. He wondered if he should put up the glass wall, so that he could study in peace. That might be better.

 

“ _Why aren’t you_ listening to me?” A kind of hot, molten _sadness, anger, terror_ crept into Harry’s chest at Tom’s words.

 

“ _If you’re so anxious for me to sleep, just possess me,”_ Harry snapped.

 

The deep reverberating sigh Tom made, caused Harry to want to separate himself, to crawl into the glass of a mirror that reflected back at Tom, so that Harry couldn’t ever be seen.

 

“ _No. I won’t.”_ The words were all icy.

 

Harry, momentarily distracted from the thick tome wondered at the frost and the rotten taste and the heady sherbet on his tongue. He tried to creep into Tom’s essence without being noticed, imagined that he was that mirror again reflecting Tom’s image.

 

The thoughts were too complex for him to understand. They whirled around at a dizzying pace, like mechanical clockwork that multiplied and grew in a labyrinthine forest, all dark and quick and shadowy. But there were glimmers of gold and light and thought, things like “ _Harry”_ and words like “ _secret” – “Slytherin” – “compulsion” – “sleep”_ and

 

“ _Forget… Forget… Forget…”_

And

 

“ _Not ever again.”_

*

 

Harry woke when Ron woke; that is, when the pile of books next to Ron toppled all onto his head. He groaned, and that’s when Hermione woke too, a mumbled “Is there any homework, Professor?” and she was up, swaying.

 

“Oh no!” she gasped, casting a quick tempus. “Class starts in ten minutes!”

 

Harry blinked at her, as did Ron, before they were all of them off, sprinting to Gryffindor tower, minds blurred and lungs burning. They arrived at Transfiguration red-faced from exertion without having eaten breakfast; Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow at them, but allowed them to skulk into the classroom without a word. And so the day continued.

 

Harry however, felt more clear-headed than he had in days, as if some parasite had been eating away at his brain but had only now miraculously vanished. Although the trio was exhausted still, it was a different change but that was difficult to describe. Harry’s thoughts were slow and ambling due to his sleepiness, but at the same time, these thoughts felt more _his_ than before.

 

That afternoon, the trio completed their homework as quickly as possible, before racing to the RoR to make a start on the potion. Sitting down on the three stools at the Potions counter, the three released a simultaneous sigh.

 

Hermione was the first to speak.

 

“Harry… Are you feeling any better?”

 

She was met with an embarrassed nod. But Hermione didn’t ask Harry to elaborate; he felt a sudden appreciation for the latitude.

 

“ _I am so glad that you slept.”_ Tom’s pleasure communicated itself in the flavour of honey that Harry suddenly tasted. He wondered at the absence of sherbet. “ _You were hurting yourself.”_

 

Hermione was still speaking. “About the Chamber of Secrets… I think that Harry’s researching has given us enough information. Mrs Norris must have met the basilisk’s eyes in the reflection of the water. Remember – Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom flooded! But the question is… who is the Heir of Slytherin?”

 

Ron scoffed. “It’s obviously Malfoy. You weren’t there Harry, because you stayed to talk to Nick. But as we went out of the Great Hall, Malfoy said ‘You’ll be next, mudbloods.’ How stupid must he be, saying that in front of the whole school?”

 

Hermione frowned. “But that could just be Malfoy being Malfoy. We don’t know. They say it’s the always the quiet ones.”

 

“ _But we know that it's the diary,”_ Harry muttered to Tom. “ _Using Ginny.”_

“ _The entire school being aware about the Chamber of Secrets opening may be troublesome, Harry.”_

_“But what if…”_ he had an idea. “What if we use the Befuddlement Potion to ask him?”

 

“Who?” Ron asked.

 

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked at the same time. “But what a good idea, Harry! Although we’ll have to speed it up a little; I snagged the Passionflower petals from Professor Sprout weeks ago. November 6th is in three days, and the forecast is slightly cloudy. We’ll have to go after dinner that night.”

 

Harry nodded, internally quite proud at his plot.

 

Tom meanwhile, chuckled, a strange thing that seemed to lick at Harry’s insides, like the tongues of a flame. “ _And you say_ I’m _manipulative? I guess this could be a motivator for your little group. But there is a problem. Even if we manage to obtain the diary from your friend’s sister, they will still want to test it out on Malfoy.”_

_“That’s fine,”_ Harry replied. “ _I don’t see why we can’t. I’ve always wanted to see the Slytherin Common room anyway. Just to prove that it’s not as good as the Gryffindor one.”’_

“And you have your Bulbadox juice, Harry?” Ron asked Harry, diverting the two from their private conversation.

 

Harry nodded, pointing at a small vial on the ingredient shelf on the wall.

 

“Alright,” Hermione was nodding excitedly. “Let's stew the fairy wings in the Bulbadox juice now. Six hours yes? Someone will have to come in later at near midnight though.”

 

And so they made their plans.

 

*

 

A week after the discovery of Mrs Norris and the bloody words on the wall, the castle was still in chaos. Students had frenzied conversations about the Chamber of Secrets in the hallways, and during class too, theorising about the legendary monster. This was of course, after Professor Flitwick’s class, which had been enlightening to most, except for Harry. And Tom, of course. What was more confronting to Harry, was the sudden fear that flooded the student body.

 

The fear wasn’t bad in itself. The fear was logical. What was terrifying was the blame and the distrust and the wary looks that people cast upon each other now, suspicious of everyone. Suspicious of everything. The Slytherins were spreading rumours that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, whilst many were pointing fingers at Malfoy, others at Terry Boot (a Muggleborn of all people?) and some at Susan Boots (It was the quiet ones, they said).

“ _It is always the same,”_ his friend said, as Harry stirred a watery solution in the Room of Requirement’s Potion Lab during lunch break. It had turned a deep, cherry red after he’d added the Passionflower Petals, Hermione counting seconds in the background, testing that it was exactly right. “ _When people are scared of something, they seek to place blame. It doesn’t matter who or what. Being suspicious helps to distract people from their fear. If anything, they are cowards.”_

Although this wise speech, and the many others like it, that Harry had heard from Tom didn’t make him feel better, they did help to calm him down from any emotional turmoil he might have been feeling. Harry could ignore the suspicious looks from some of his more gullible friends… what was more important, was that he keep an eye on Ginny.

 

It wasn’t particularly difficult, although Harry still felt like his blood froze in his veins whenever he saw her. He and Tom didn’t speak of it; they both desired the diary. It was to save the school from the basilisk hidden in the Chamber, to prevent the Heir of Slytherin’s intentions being found out. But it was more than that. Harry _needed_ the diary. And whenever he saw Ginny, he felt it.

 

But he and Tom didn’t speak of it.

 

Harry could hardly bear his classes. He sat through each with his mind on other matters, could hardly focus at all, and still managed to cast most spells flawlessly. Sometimes the frustration was so strong that he had to take several deep breaths, before he could calm down.

 

Thank Merlin for Tom, was all Harry felt at these moments.

 

The worst class wasn’t Potions. Lately Potions had been one of the only classes Harry could _remain_ focused in. Every now and then Snape would list some property that related to the Befuddlement Potion’s crafting, or mention one of the ingredients, and Harry would straighten as if possessed, his ears alert for any new knowledge to be gleaned.

 

He hated Snape. But he liked Potions more, believe it or not.

 

What was unbearable was Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was the one class that Harry _had_ to remain focused in, because Professor Lockhart loved calling him up for examples so often. He had to remain vigilant in case the foolish blonde Professor took his eye out with his wand or some other dangerous absurdity occurred. The matter of Professor Lockhart was one where Tom, Ron and Harry were _all_ in agreement, and Hermione was not.

 

“He’s a fraud!” Ron would complain after each lesson.

 

“No he’s not,” Hermione would reply crossly.

 

“ _Yes he is,”_ Tom would say.

 

“I agree,” from Harry.

 

 

*

 

 

The moon crept into the sky slowly on the night of November 6th. The billowing fog had made an appearance too, so that the grounds of Hogwarts seemed whiter than anything else. More importantly, any stars were hidden by the dustings of milky cloud. In Ron’s words, it was ‘bloody brilliant. Imagine if it had rained! Glad we didn’t need to wait another month.’ The weather had surpassed all expectations for Passionflower petal boiling, it seemed.

 

The swollen waters of the Black Lake, the edge of which they now sat, had abated somewhat after the rain of October, and although the ground was moist, it was not muddy. Tom, who had come to have a chronic dislike of the wet after Harry’s Quidditch practises, had had the foresight to think to bring a blanket, which Harry now laid down on the grass. From here, the Passionflower petals had the best access to the moonlight, and indeed, rays shone down on them softly from behind the clouds. Hermione had brought a small copper cauldron along with her from the RoR, empty of course, and was using _Aquamenti_ to fill it with water. She scattered the purple petals into the cauldron and cast a heating charm; the water began to bubble. They watched as the water began to glisten, a lavender tinge beginning to appear in the liquid and the petals wilting under the moonlight. It was surprisingly beautiful, until a voice shocked them out of their trance.

 

“Harry? What are yer three doin’ here?”

 

The three students bolted upright as if guilty of a terrible deed. Horror was etched onto their faces as they stared up at Hagrid, who looked down at them with wide eyes.

 

“Oh! Hagrid!” Hermione said nervously. “Well, we were just… um-“

 

“We’re working in the potion,” said Ron, glancing at Hermione. “The Befuddlement Potion, remember?”

 

Hagrid frowned down at them, obviously unhappy. “Yeh shouldn’ be up at this hour. It’s dangerous; I’m sure yeh know what’s bin goin’ on, lately?”

 

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. “We know. We’re half finished though, so you wouldn’t mind staying for fifteen minutes longer with us? Surely we’ll we fine with you here.”

 

Ron and Harry nodded along enthusiastically.  


“I dunno, Hermione,” said Hagrid looking around. “I’ll stay but it doesn’ mean much in these times.”

 

They turned back to the potion, obediently stirring counter-clockwise every few minutes, or whatever else the recipe said. Hermione glanced at Harry meeting his gaze, and nodded her head at the silent Hagrid, who sat beside him. _Talk to him._

“Hagrid…” Harry began. “This happened before, didn’t it? What happened to Mrs Norris that is, and the Writing on the Wall.”

 

Hagrid glanced at him sharply. “Might’ve had. Yeh’ve no business asking, though.”

 

“ _He knows what you’re asking,”_ Tom murmured. He’d been quiet all night, but now his presence arrived, Harry could feel the difference. A certain warmth. “ _He won’t answer if you ask too directly.”_

“Well,” he continued. “We were just thinking that you might remember it. See, we found some copies of the Daily Prophet from fifty years ago, that talked about similar things happened at Hogwarts. And we thought… well… you were at school, weren’t you? As a student?”

 

The half-giant released a deep sigh, and stared at the cauldron. “How much longer is there to go?”

 

“Ten minutes,” said Hermione smilingly.

 

There was another sigh. “I remember. None of us knew what was happenin’. None of us. Not even Tom Riddle.”

 

Harry straightened.

 

“Tom Riddle? That Slytherin again?” Ron asked. “He keeps turning up. He won Special Services to the school, didn't he?”

 

Hagrid’s face darkened slightly. “Yes. He did.”

 

“ _That was because of Hagrid,”_ Tom suddenly murmured. “ _As you read about, Harry. Because of Hagrid.”_

“Well…” said Ron. “What happened?”

 

“It wasn’t Aragog’s fault,” said Hagrid quickly. “Riddle was wrong, though they all believed him o’ course. Hard not to, I s’pose. But it wasn’t me.”

 

Hermione stopped boiling the water, but stayed silent.

 

“Aragog was meh only friend’,” said Hagrid. “I was differen’ see. O’ course yeh know all about that. But Aragog didn’ kill no one, didn’ hurt no one. But no one believed me after Myrtle.”

 

“Hagrid,” started Ron. “That’s all fine and everything. But who’s Aragog?”

 

Hagrid blinked. “He’s an acromantula. I thought yeh knew everything, already?”

 

Ron paled.

 

“Mostly,” Harry smiled. But it lacked warmth. “But… if it wasn’t Aragog fifty years ago, who was it?”

 

He ached to know. For Tom.

 

“I dunno,” replied the gamekeeper. “And Dumbledore doesn’ know either. We’re all of us, at a loss.”

 

“Was it Tom Riddle,” asked Ron. “The Prefect? He seems shady to me.”

 

Hagrid shook his head. “No, not Riddle. He was a Muggleborn, though everyone respected him, even the Purebloods. I dunno how he did it. No one did. But we were all jealous of him fer it.” He looked at the small cauldron in front of them then. It was no longer bubbling, and the purple petals were floating limply on the surface. “Yeh better get to bed. An’ soon, before anythin’ happens to yeh.”

 

The moon’s light had faded as the cloud cover thickened, and darkness had taken over, turning all colour to greys and silvers. “You’re right,” said Hermione. She collected the petals from the cauldron and vanished the water. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

They walked back up to the castle, hidden beneath Harry’s Invisibility Cloak in silence. But this veiled the loudness of their thoughts.

 

“ _That wasn’t enlightening at all,”_ said Harry as they passed a particularly gruesome portrait on the fourth floor.

 

 _“There is no point searching for the Heir,”_ replied Tom. “ _You won’t find anything. He hid his tracks very well.”_

_“It’s only for you,”_ Harry said. Arriving at the Fat Lady’s Portrait, Ron whispered the password, and they walked inside. Then it was murmured plans for the next day and the potion, a meeting in the RoR at lunchtime and after class too. Harry and Ron went up to the Boy’s Dormitory in quiet conversation, the redhead still thinking about Hagrid’s words. Finally, after they’d both changed, and crawled into their beds, there was silence.

 

Tom could finally reply. “ _Don’t. You won’t like what you find.”_

Harry didn’t remember anything after that. He’d fallen asleep.

 

*

 

 

 

They finished the Befuddlement Potion that Saturday night, Ron barely awake and even Hermione yawning. Grinning triumphantly, Harry filled up three vials with the now silvery substance. Placing the three vials on the bench, the Trio stared, silence filling the room. They didn’t know what to say it seemed.

**__ **

All at once, Harry was aware of the aches that filled his entire body. He sat on a comfy sofa that appeared, and after a moment in which they all looked at each other, Hermione and Ron followed suit. The sleepy sigh that followed came from the three of them.

 

“ _Finally,”_ Harry murmured to Tom. “ _I don’t think I ever want to brew another potion again.”_ He giggled slightly, a hysterical edge to the sound that seemed to worry Tom deeply.

 

“It’s done,” said Hermione then. It was obvious from her tone that she couldn’t really believe it. “It’s actually done.”

 

“Can’t believe it,” Ron yawned. “Now… we just have to try it on Malfoy!”

 

The couch widened as the room fell once more into silence. Harry’s two friends were already sleeping. His eyes too, seemed to be already closing, but Harry struggled against the pressure.

 _“Sleep,”_ Tom chided him. _“You must sleep. You have not enough for too long. We can plan further tomorrow. It is a Saturday after all. So please, rest Harry.”_

“Wait,” he mumbled, standing up and walking back to the bench where the silvery vials rested. Glancing back at Hermione and Ron, he pocketed one.

 

“ _Now sleep?”_

_“I’m worried they’ll notice,”_ Harry replied, not answering Tom’s question.

 

“ _I’ll cast a subtle but complex Memory Charm on them,”_ Tom said sardonically. “ _Now please get into bed.”_

Bed? He suddenly noticed that the ever-widening couch had morphed into three separate beds, each with blankets and pillows and Gryffindor colours.

 

“ _Yes, I know. Red. I don't’ care. Bed.”_

All Harry could do was release a snigger, before he practically fell onto the bed, the vial carefully spelled not to fall out of his pocket. Asleep.

Harry slept in till midday, and woke for the first time in weeks, almost well rested. Blinking, the boy stretched, wiggling his arms and legs and toes, burying himself under the covers to feel the soft linen against his skin, even as he yawned, and his eyes fluttered. Suddenly, however, Harry remembered the events of the night before, and sat up instantly, eyes wide and grinning wickedly. _“We did it, Tom! We actually did it!”_ Tom’s contentment and pride washed over him then, like a warm waterfall. It was difficult not to fall back against the covers, and let the sensation wash over him.

“ _Yes. I am very proud of you Harry. You have worked tremendously hard. You are only twelve years old and yet you brewed the Befuddlement Potion, are taking the responsibility for the whole school’s safety on your small shoulders.”_ Harry could only smile at the praise, eyes shut but face radiant.

 

“You’re awake!” came Ron’s voice. Harry looked over to his friend, who lay in the bed beside him with a tray of a half-eaten hot breakfast on his lap. Hermione, only her bushy hair visible in the third bed, was still deeply asleep.

 

“I didn’t know that the RoR could make breakfast,” Harry said, staring enviously at one particularly juicy-looking piece of bacon.

 

“Oh no,” said Ron, his mouth full of what looked like scrambled egg. “It was Dobby.”

 

“ _Dobby?”_ Tom muttered, a sliver of exasperation slithering across the link.

 

“Dobby?” Harry repeated, surprised. To his greater shock, however, the elf appeared with a loud pop.

 

“Harry Potter called, sir?” the house elf asked, eyes fixed hopefully on Harry’s face.

 

Ron spoke before Harry could reply. “Harry… what if Dobby spiked Malfoy’s Pumpkin Juice at dinner or something?”

 

“What?”

 

Harry hadn’t even thought about Malfoy since coming up with the ‘fake’ plan. However, with three vials (one of which his friends didn’t know about), he saw no reason why they couldn’t go ahead with it.

“ _You are quite devious, you know,”_ Tom mumbled to him. “ _Although you refuse to admit to it, of course.”_

 

How Harry loved the taste of honey.

 

“Dobby could definitely do this, Harry Potter sir,” the house-elf nodded fervently at Harry. Dobby’s large eyes were wide, peering at Harry’s face hopefully.

 

Tom snorted, and Harry attempted not to follow suit.

 

“Ah… yes,” Harry shook his head, centering himself whilst mentally glaring at Tom, whose own laughter was making it difficult to continue to farce of doing so. “Could you please pour one of those vials into Malfoy’s pumpkin juice tonight? But you can’t be seen.” He pointed over to the bench where the two vials stood.

 

“ _Could we get Dobby to pour one into Ginny’s as well?”_ Harry asked. “ _It’s just that Ron is here…”_

“ _You’re forgetting something, Harry.”_

Oh. “Dobby,” he said. “Could you also put this vial into Ginny’s Pumpkin Juice?” He gingerly handed over the one in his pocket. “Again, we don’t want her to see.”

“Of course!” Dobby practically jumped for joy, taking the glass vial reverently. “Dobby will do anything to help such a noble wizard as you, Harry Potter. In fact, Dobby wouldn’t-”

“Thanks, Dobby!” Harry exclaimed hastily. “Give me a sign once she’s drunk it.”

 

Ron was gazing at him strangely. “Harry… You don’t have a crush on Ginny, do you?” The redhead made a queasy expression. “You’re always staring at her, like really intensely. As her older brother, I think I need to tell you that using a Befuddlement Potion on my sister-“

 

“And Obliviate Ron please,” Harry added cheerfully.

 

“What!”

 

“Of course, sir,” Dobby nodded respectfully, and that was that.

 

He didn’t notice Hermione’s sharp eyes gazing at Harry from behind her pillow.

 

As the day went on, Harry grew more and more agitated, enough that Ron noticed even, and despite Harry’s muttered “I really _am_ fine”s, they refused to believe him (which was the logical thing to do).

 

They thought that it was about Malfoy drinking the Befuddlement Potion of course, which he let them believe because well… he didn’t have a better explanation. Ron was gazing at Malfoy with anticipation in his eyes all through dinner, but Hermione was far less excited. She glanced at Harry speculatively.

 

“Harry,” said Hermione finally, forthright as usual. “We are your friends. Whether you refuse to tell us what’s wrong or not, it doesn’t matter. We won’t abandon you.  What does matter, however, is that you don’t lie to us about being all right. I know you, Harry. You’re not alright.” Harry of course, almost burst into tears at that (maybe he _was_ still a little tired) but of course refrained because he was _twelve_ for goodness sake, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing, to cry in front of a _girl?_

 

“You guys are the best,” he muttered back instead, ducking his head down hastily and staring at the floor. Luckily, he managed to sneak a seat next to Ginny, ignoring Hermione’s raised eyebrows. She knew that Harry normally avoided this particular member of his “fanclub”, Harry guessed.

 

Ron fortunately, did not notice at all, although he did make a small comment that caused his sister’s face to flush. He received a slap on the arm for it too.

 

Harry poured himself a pumpkin juice, but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. He had to stop himself from staring at Ginny’s own drink, and forced himself instead into a conversation with Hermione and Ron.

 

“The game against Slytherin’s next week, isn’t it?” Ron chattered cheerfully. “How do you think you’ll go Harry? No way you will Malfoy beat you. Maybe we’ll even have exposed him as the Heir beforehand.” He looked at the Slytherin table again, excitedly.

 

Harry threaded his fingers through his hair, staring at Ginny with his peripheral vision. She hadn’t taken one sip of her pumpkin juice yet.

 

“What?” he said loudly. “Oh. Not good. They’ve all got 2001s, as you know.”

 

Remembering the ‘mudblood’ incident, Hermione paled and Ron grimaced. “Merlin, Malfoy’s a git. I’d say I can’t believe that he actually bought himself onto the team, but I can believe it. Easily.” Harry barely heard him. Ginny had picked up her cup of pumpkin juice, only to place it down again next to her plate of food.

 

“Harry,” Hermione murmured in response to his silence. “Are you alright?”

 

He flashed a quick glance at her, saw her worried expression and felt guilt settle inside his stomach. “I’m sorry, really. I’m alright it’s just-” Harry cut himself off. Ginny had just taken a sip from her cup. Dobby’s form appeared for a millisecond (without the sharp crack) behind her. The elf pointed madly at Ginny and then vanished. Harry realised that he was gaping again, open-mouthed at the spectacle. Hermione and Ron were staring at him as if he’d gone mad.

 

“Harry,” Ron murmured, looking queasy. “Please don’t tell me you’ve gone and got a crush on my sis-” Harry ignored him.

 

“Ginny!” he said lightly, gently. Tom’s own anticipation thrummed in his veins. He barely managed to keep his fingertips from twitching. “Ginny,” Harry repeated. The girl in question was staring at him with a dazed expression, a small smile on her face. “Give me Tom’s diary.” It was as if the entire hall had disappeared. Harry felt as if he were underwater, the sudden pulse of his blood in his ears.

 

“Tom’s diary?” Ginny gaped at Harry as if he’d just admitted to being Lucius Malfoy in disguise. “How do you know?”

 

 _“Tom!”_ Harry hissed, shocked at the sudden panic he felt. _“It’s not working, why isn’t it-”_

 

He felt a soothing calmness melt through him. _“Harry, it’s alright. It is working. This is the beauty of the Befuddlement Potion.”_

 

Ginny hesitated visibly, before grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him up from the Gryffindor table. Ron made a disgusted sound, Hermione was quiet, and someone wolf whistled. Harry barely noticed anyone’s flabbergasted faces.

 

“It’s in my dormitory,” Ginny murmured to Harry, leading him still by the hand to their common room. “I still don’t understand how know about Tom, but…” the girl smiled at Harry breathlessly, “If you ask, I think he’ll like you. He’s very curious about you.”

Harry gaped. “ _This potion is brilliant,”_ he murmured to Tom. “ _I thought she’d be more…”_

 

 _“Possessed?”_ Tom asked, amusedly. “ _Befuddled? No. Ginny trusts you completely now, enough that she’d gift you her beloved diary. And that diary will have needled itself into her deepest affections. Her priorities are befuddled.”_ Of course. Harry realised it made sense perfectly. He had the sudden urge to cackle at the adrenaline running through him. It was made more powerful by the similar emotion passing through to him from Tom.

 

Finally, they reached the Gryffindor tower, and Ginny left him in front of the fireplace, hurrying upstairs. She returned within the minute, smiling, blushing. She handed the diary to him, and Harry wobbled at the strong feel of Tom’s magic, his presence on the object. It felt so different somehow. More. Energised and alive, both younger and older. Harry wanted to inhale it, wanted to never cease to touch it. It was like his fingers were glued to the small black diary in his hands. His fingers were stroking it, ceaselessly, softly, making small sparks flutter up his arms. Harry smiled at Ginny, a feeling of euphoria within him. “Thank you. Perhaps you should return to dinner? And please… don’t tell anyone about this. I’m going to bed now, as I’m not feeling well.”

Ginny nodded fervently, before hurrying off, leaving Harry alone with Tom and the diary.

 

“We did it!” he exclaimed then. His magic was thrumming in his bloodstream excitedly. He had been focusing on this, planning this for weeks. For months even. Now, finally, Harry could rest.

 

“ _You must destroy it,”_ he heard Tom murmur. “ _It is difficult to do so, however. It might be better to hide it away until you are able.”_

 

Harry nodded, staring spellbound at the diary. It was beautiful, he noticed absentmindedly.  A glossy cover, thick pages. He raised it to his face and breathed it in. It smelled like what Tom would smell like, he thought, if Tom could be real.

 

“I don’t want to,” Harry mumbled petulantly. And then more loudly, “I don’t want to. It’s part of you! Surely they must be some way to release it. To release you.”

 

Harry hated Tom’s pain-filled resignation. “ _There is not, Harry. I do not want you getting hurt.”_

He felt crushed beneath his own inadequacy. He couldn’t release Tom from his mind. He couldn’t save him from the diary. He couldn’t do anything.

 

“ _No!”_ Tom snapped. “ _You have saved every muggleborn in this school by your actions tonight, Harry. Do not forget that. And… you took me from that darkness. You_ saved me. _Please… do not ever forget that. I know I will not.”_

 

Harry slumped into the folds of a sofa-chair, staring morosely into the fireplace. He was still clenching the diary in his hands, stroking its pages fervently. “ _I don’t understand,”_ he said now. “ _If the diary is so dangerous, why aren’t you?”_

 

He felt Tom’s sigh reverberate in his own deep exhale. It was a gentle thing, a small puff of coolness in his chest, that dissipated quickly. “ _The diary was made with a purpose in mind, as you know. However, I was made accidentally. With no purpose.”_ Harry nodded slowly, still gazing into the dying embers of the fire. The common room was slowly growing dimmer, it’s scarlet hues fading into rust.

 

“ _It’s you,”_ he whispered helplessly. “ _I could never hurt you Tom. Please don’t ask me to. Not now, and not in the future, either.”_ Even so anguished as he was, Harry could feel Tom’s own conflict.

 

“ _Do you think I want to destroy a part of myself?”_ Tom hissed angrily. Harry was shocked at the fire in Tom’s voice. “ _But I would_ not _have you harmed. It is worth it, in the end, to see you safe.”_ Harry couldn’t argue with that. Not with Tom like this, willing to kill part of himself for Harry. He could only place the diary at the bottom of his trunk, under layers of protective enchantments Tom had taught him. He had not even opened it.

 

The year passed peacefully after that. They didn’t expose Malfoy as the Heir, though they did find out a few embarrassing things about Pansy Parkinson which they’d rather not know. Harry beat Malfoy in the Quidditch match, 180 points to 20. Harry’s room was broken into (by Ginny presumably) but the diary remained safe inside Harry’s trunk. Tom’s protective enchantments really paid off. What was far more exciting was that Harry and Ron, with Tom’s help, exposed Lockhart as a fraud, much to Hermione’s dismay and embarrassment. Hermione also, for some strange reason, thought that Harry was in love with Ginny and forced them to sit next to each other at practically every interval. Other than that, Harry passed all his end of year exams with flying colours and before he knew it, the school year was almost over. He was as sorry as ever to leave Hogwarts. He knew that he would miss his friends greatly. However, now there was no pesky house elf to steal away his letters. And most importantly, Harry had Tom.

_*_

As for the diary, it lay snug in his trunk, untouched. But a trunk is not the same as a Gringotts Vault, and even a Gringotts Vault can be broken into.

 

And a trunk? Why… that’s not secure at all.

 

**The End**

 

**PoA to begin soon...**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Year 2 is over. I hope you don't find it too abrupt - Harry will definitely speak with Diary!Tom. You'll just need to wait a little :) 
> 
> You will understand when it happens, I promise.
> 
> Love Insidious


	11. Sirius Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban begins... 
> 
> WARNING: Some small segments of description and dialogue are taken from HP&POA, Chapters 1-4.
> 
> Happy Reading :)

 

_It was an impalpable greyness… with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory…*_

_And yet sometimes he dreamed he remembered flickers, sparks of brilliance from beyond the shadowed pages… he dreamed he imagined them.*_

_But we live as we dream*, and this wasn’t life but death so it must be so much worse. We dream alone, and this… this was a nightmare._

*

Harry’s thirteenth birthday arrived far more quickly than his twelfth had. The summer had passed smoothly and quickly, as a handy Disillusionment Charm (wandless, of course) had enabled Harry to take back his trunk and schoolwork from the cupboard within the very first week. He’d completed all his homework, including his very interesting History of Magic essay about Wendelin the Weird and witch burnings (most of which failed pretty riotously).

 

Then… well, Harry had spent most of the summer beseeching Tom for knowledge. Any knowledge really; stories, myths, fairytales (the true ones), spells, recipes, general facts about Wizarding Culture and of course, knowledge about Tom himself. Harry’s good friend rarely surrendered any information, and other than a general idea about him being an unfortunate Slytherin graduate of Hogwarts, trapped by the actual Heir of Slytherin in various objects (including Harry himself), he knew practically nothing at all. So this year, now that Harry had safely hidden away Tom’s diary, another unfortunate object, he planned to get to the bottom of things.

 

So Harry was almost surprised when Ron and Hermione’s birthday letters came. Surprised yes, and embarrassingly pleased. After Hedwig, an unconscious Errol (Ron’s owl) and a Hogwarts owl arrived, Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed the package, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in gold, and his second ever birthday card.

 

His second.

 

“ _Happy Birthday Harry,”_ Tom murmured to him, a honeyed whisper on his breath.

 

Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the envelope.

 

Two pieces of paper fell out -- a letter and a newspaper clipping. The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding newspaper, the Daily Prophet, because the people in the black-and-white picture were moving. Harry picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:

 

 

**_MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE_ **

**_Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the_ **

**_Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw._ **

**_A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet,_ **

**_"We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank." The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend._ **

****

Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin spread across his face as he saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in front of a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tail, balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all (though the black-and-white picture didn't show it) with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around his little sister, Ginny.

 

“ _A trip to Egypt?”_ Tom asked curiously; Harry could tell by the sudden smack of caramel he tasted. “ _A cursebreaker in the family is nothing to ashamed about.”_

Harry shrugged and moved onto his other packages, grinning triumphantly (and ignoring Tom’s groans) at Hermione’s gift. His heart had given a huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit.

 

"Wow, Hermione!" Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.

 

There was a large jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tall-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare.

 

“ _I thought she had more taste than that,”_ the ever-cynical Tom complained mulishly.

 

Harry sniggered. “ _Since when did you prefer Ron to Hermione?”_ He then put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel, recognising the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. A hint of unease drifted into him; Harry ignored it, knowing Tom felt uncomfortable around the large man, after having falsely accused him. But Harry knew that it had been an accident; Hagrid _did_ have a propensity to look after strange pets after all. So he tore off the top layer of paper excitedly, glimpsing something green and leathery within, but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly -- as though it had jaws. Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn't have a normal person's view of what was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his cabin.

 

“ _I have a feeling about this,”_ Tom whispered sarcastically. It tasted like coffee, the sarcasm. Bitter, and for Tom it seemed, necessary.

 

Harry ignored him, poking the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled. And out fell -- a book. Harry just had time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.

 

“Uh-oh," Harry muttered.

 

The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still fast sleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached toward it.

 

"Ouch!"

 

The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward, and managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the room next door. Tom meanwhile was laughing like they were having a wonderful time, and Harry scoffed at him.

 

“This isn’t a laughing matter,” he hissed, trying to ignore the urge to smile (that wasn’t him, no it wasn’t at all). Tom, Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt, which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid's card.

 

**_Dear Harry,_ **

**_Happy Birthday!_ **

**_Think you might find this useful for next year. Won't say no more here._ **

**_Tell you when I see you. Hope the Muggles are treating you right._ **

**_All the best,_ **

**_Hagrid_ **

 

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in useful. That was until Tom said, “ _I just bet that he’s taking on Care of Magical Creatures this year. He was always obsessed with them.”_

 

Harry hummed, placing Hagrid's card up next to Ron and Hermione's cards. He was grinning more broadly than ever. “Hagrid a Professor? Now wouldn’t that be fun.”

 

Tom groaned. “ _Fun? Magical Creatures are textbook, you could memorize the important ones in a month. No, you want to be doing Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.”_

“Oh?” Harry asked, not really listening. Now there was only the letter from Hogwarts left and it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:

 

**_Dear Mr. Potter,_ **

**_Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first._ **

**_The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock. Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign._ **

**_A list of books for next year is enclosed._ **

**_Yours sincerely,_ **

**_Professor M. McGonagall_ **

**_Deputy Headmistress_ **

 

Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

 

“ _Well…”_ said Tom. “ _I’m sure you could magic up a signature. That’s what I did in my day.”_

He got it on the third go. Aunt Petunia’s neat and curly script, in blue ballpoint pen no else, on the form using a special spell that Tom derived from Ancient Runes and Charms theory; Harry would ‘ _understand someday’_ , he’d said.

 

Maybe he’d take Ancient Runes. That had been pretty cool.

 

 

*

 

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate continually.

 

Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon; far from wishing Harry a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict: "... The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately."

 

"No need to tell us he's no good," snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. "Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!"

 

He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.

 

“ _He looks familiar,”_ Tom mused, referring to the criminal on screen. “ _I can’t quite remember where from, however.”_

 

The man’s image vanished, and the reporter reappeared.

 

"The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today --"

 

"Hang on!" barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. "You didn't tell us where that maniac's escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!"

 

Harry looked back at the TV, wondering if the photograph would return. _“Could he be a wizard?”_ The idea was not a strange one; Harry had already met three wizard criminals after all. Quirrel, Voldemort and most terrible of them all, Lockhart.

 

“ _He might be… but… he couldn’t have escaped from Azkaban,”_ Tom murmured.

 

“ _Azkaban?”_

And so Harry learned of Azkaban.

 

And its guards.

 

Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, "I'd better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge's train gets in at ten."

 

Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with deep questions of the human soul and the possibility of it being sucked out, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.

 

"Aunt Marge?" he blurted out. "Sh -- she's not coming here, is she?"

 

Harry refused to stay at the Dursleys if Aunt Marge was going to come. It was quite as simple as that. Tom, who knew something of the woman from Harry’s words (and nightmares, though he’d _never_ admit to it) agreed with him.

  
_“I do_ not _want you being eaten by a rapid bull dog,“_ the man said.

 

So. Harry had told the Dursleys politely, formally, curtly that he was leaving early and that they needn’t bother worrying (which they wouldn't do anyway).

 

“You- you can’t just leave!” said Uncle Vernon, struggling to get up from the lounge chair.

 

“Why not, Dad?” said Dudley. “That means we don’t get to see him for another year, right?”

 

“We could always tell Marge that he’s at a summer school for rebellious teens…” Aunt Petunia suggested nervously.

 

“She’d be happy to hear about the discipline there, I suppose,” Uncle Vernon mused.

 

Harry didn’t bother to hang around and listen. He raced upstairs, packed his trunk, shrunk it using some handy spell Tom had taught him and wandered off down Privet Drive to catch the Knight bus (again under Tom’s instruction), a triple-decker, violently purple monstrosity, which appeared out of thin air upon Harry’s summons.

 

He soon enough regretted his quick actions, however. Harry and Tom had both expected to lose stomachs and intestines both. Maybe their lives. He _had_ learned however, from the pimply conductor ‘Stan Shunpike’ that the criminal, Sirius Black was indeed a wizard, had indeed escaped from Azkaban, had murdered thirteen people with one curse _and_ was a follower of You Know Who.

 

“ _Really?”_ Tom had asked, faintly. “ _I didn’t know that.”_

_“You knew Sirius Black?”_ Harry asked, at once entranced. Any opportunity to learn about Tom was a serious event.

 

“ _No,”_ said Tom. There was something strange in the timbre of his voice. “ _I didn’t.”_

 

"You oughta read the papers more, Neville,” the conductor said, interrupting Tom’s words and handing Harry the Prophet.

 

Harry attempted to ignore the rolling of his stomach, obviously from the speeding public transport (never again, he swore) bringing the smallish print of the newspaper closer to his face to read.

 

**_Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. "We are doing all we can to recapture Black," said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, "and we beg the magical community to remain calm." Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis. "Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it-who'd believe him if he did?"_ **

 

*

Later, as Harry curled up in bed snugly in a room of The Leaky Cauldron feeling very satisfied, he thought that the Knight Bus had been worth it, after all.

 

 _“Let’s do this every summer,”_ he told Tom. “ _I don't see why we can’t. I don't think I can stand the Dursleys until I am seventeen.”_

Tom’s agreement washed through him like sunlight. “ _Maybe you should find a permanent residence. A cottage in the wood perhaps?”_

Harry hummed at the idea, spectacularly content. “I wonder if I have any guardians other than the Dursleys. There’s someone else, surely! I doubt my parents would have chosen the Dursleys as my only guardians. They hated my parents!”

 

Again, that wash of golden light. “ _Indeed. Perhaps you ought to check their wills at Gringotts?”_

So the next day, after an amazing breakfast (because he hadn’t made it) Harry entered Diagon Alley, and ambled over to Gringotts. He smiled cheerfully at the goblins, ignoring their stern facade, before making his way to an available counter.

 

“I’m Harry Potter,” he said politely. “I’d like to see my parents’ will.”

 

He was subjected to a fierce stare. “This way please, Mr Potter.”

 

The small goblin led Harry into a small room that was still just as grand as the bank’s foyer. It gestured for him to sit, before passing over to him a small piece of paper. “An identification document,” the goblin explained. “Some saliva will do.”

 

Harry spat on the document and was relieved when his name appeared on it in curly, green calligraphy. He handed it back to the goblin.

 

“My name is Igoik,” the goblin stated. “Now that I have confirmed your identity, would you like to see your assets first, or James and Lily Potter’s last will and testament.”

 

Harry hesitated. “Assets, please. And then the will.”

 

Igoik only nodded, and swiped a hand over the document before passing it over to Harry. To his surprise, it now held a list of all his possessions and details.

 

**_Guardians: Mr Vernon Dursley, Mrs Petunia Dursley nee Evans (muggles), Sirius Black (wizard, incarcerated)_ **

****

**_Accessible Vaults: Harry Potter trust fund, receives 1000 galleons per annum, worth 12, 872 galleons, 10 sickles and 4 knuts_ **

****

**_Non-Accessible Vaults: Potter Vault (withdrawn 1000 galleons per annum y to H.P trust fund), worth 300, 723 galleons, 14 sickles and 11 knuts. Note: access granted at 17 years_ **

****

Harry gaped at the amount of money he owned before…

 

“ _Sirius Black!”_

 

“ _This is somewhat of a surprise,”_ murmured Tom, something dark and twisting rearing its head in Harry’s stomach.

Harry asked Igoik for his parent’s will then, feeling his throat dry up. He was suddenly terribly nervous. Until that was, Tom submerged him in shining, golden warmth, all amber and honey-flavoured.

 

“ _Thank you,”_ he mumbled, shy.”

 

The will was surprisingly simple. He was to go first to Sirius Black, and then to the Dursleys. He would go to Hogwarts, and tuition was to be paid from his trust fund. That was it, concerning Harry at least. It made him feel woefully small. And again, he had to rely on Tom’s honey ocean to stay calm so that he could thank Igoik, and make his way out of Gringotts.

 

 _“But… Sirius Black,”_ Harry muttered distractedly as they walked. _“Why would my parents give me to a murderer?”_ He felt Tom start, and saw then the poster on the window of _Flourish and Blotts_ he happened to be passing. In large letters it said:

**_ SIRIUS BLACK: ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN _ **

****

_“Maybe he wasn’t a murderer when they wrote that Will,”_ Tom murmured. “ _There is research to be done.”_

_*_

 

Harry was suitably agitated when he returned to his room in the Leaky Cauldron, pacing and hissing under his breath. “He’s the one who betrayed my parents to Voldemort - And now he’s escaped! Oh Merlin he’s probably going to try and kill me or something.”

 

But Tom, even in his disturbed state of mind, Harry could sense his confusion. “ _It’s all wrong,”_ Tom murdered. “ _It wasn’t Black that betrayed them to Voldemort. It was Pettigrew.”_

_“_ Why… why would you say that?” Harry ran his fingers through his hair, and sat down on his bed, thinking aloud. “ _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ said that Black killed Pettigrew.”

 

Tom would have nodded, if he could have, Harry knew. _“I don’t understand it… Why did they blame Black?”_

 

Harry shrugged and fell back on his bed with a plop. “There was nothing left of him but a finger. Of course they blamed him.”

 

He tasted the name on his tongue. _Sirius Black. Sirius Black._ “Strange to find a connection,” he told Tom, “only to lose it before you ever gained it.”

 

He was quiet for a moment. “My parents trusted him. They trusted him enough to let him raise me. I don’t understand it at all.”

 

Tom’s warm breath of sympathy finally allowed Harry to cry. But he refused to let any tears fall; he let his eyes fill and blinked a dozen times. “ _I’m sorry,”_ Tom whispered to Harry softly. Achingly. _“I’m sorry.”_

 

He spent the next few days, with were long and sunny, exploring the shops and eating under the brightly, covered umbrellas outside the café. He could do his homework in the bright sunshine outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, finishing all his essays with help from Tom and even Florean Fortescue himself who apart from knowing a great deal about medieval witch burnings, gave Harry free sundaes every half hour. He also spent way too much time in Flourish and Blotts, captivated by the thousands and thousands of books that lay within. He’d even upgraded his trunk, adding an infinite library draw that never ran out of room. Harry also bought many, many books on Wizarding History, Charms and Defense (and even Magical Morality and the Darks Arts).

 

After he finished his homework, Harry liked to read, lazing in the sun, sipping at raspberry soda that he had discovered at a muggle supermarket. It was his new favourite beverage, much to Tom’s consternation. Harry was also excited for his new elective subjects this year. With Tom’s assistance, he’d chosen Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, which seemed to be the most valuable. Harry already knew, thanks to Tom, that Divination was a waste of time. One had to be born with the Sight. Arithmancy on the other hand, relied on the magical properties of numbers and further study of Numerology to predict the future. At least, this was what the Prologue to his copy of _Numerology and Grammatica_ stated; he hoped it lived up to its expectations.

 

Harry had been very grateful for his choice, when he saw the Monster book of Monsters listed for Care of Magical Creatures in his Hogwarts letter. Now he understood why Hagrid had sent the book to him. And in all honesty, Hayrry would much rather read it by himself, with Tom with him to explain and elaborate on interesting points, then with an entire third year class chattering and struggling around him. Yes, Harry was quite relieved he’d elected not to take Care of Magical Creatures.

 

The manager too, at Flourish and Blotts had been relieved.

 

“Thank heavens!” the man had sighed. “I’ve been bitten five times already this morning.” He was interrupted by a loud ripping noise as two Monsters Books attempted to rip a third apart.

 

“ _Thank Heavens,”_ Harry had echoed the man, making Tom laugh. Harry had smiled.

He’d also spent simply too much time staring, slack-jawed at the gorgeous new broom, the _Firebolt_. He’d never wanted something so much in his life (except for his parents, and friends and Tom to be real of course), but to fork out money on such an immaterial thing… He had his _Nimbus 2000_ after all. What did he need a _Firebolt_ for? Even just the memory of his almost caving and buying the broom turned Harry’s ears red. Luckily Tom had been too busy ruminating on the rat to notice Harry’s embarrassment. He’d hate to let Tom think he was greedy.

 

Harry spent time pouring over Hermione’s birthday gift instead, and rereading their letters. The shape of their words, written but present all the same, was too lovely to ignore. He liked to look at the photo of Ron and his in Egypt, waving and beaming at him.

 

But…“ _That rat,”_ Tom had murmured. “ _That pet of your friend Ron… it has a toe missing.”_

Harry hadn’t known what to make of _that._ And Tom of coursed, refused to elaborate.

 

He soon began to run into other Hogwarts students including Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas in Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Neville Longbottom outside Flourish and Blotts. But tt was the last day of the summer holidays when he heard two excited voices yelling his name.

 

“Harry! HARRY!” Ron and Hermione were there, both of them, sitting outside sitting outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice cream Parlor, grinning and waving at him.

 

“Finally,’ said Ron. “We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you’d left, and we went to Flourish and Blotts, _and_ Madame Malkins,” and Harry felt a huge surge of joy flow through him at his friend’s faces.

 

Hermione was overjoyed that he was planning to do Ancient Runes and Arithmancy with her. Ron… not so much. But Harry was repeatedly distracted from the lively conversation by Tom, who was analyzing Scabbers from top to bottom. They’d made their way to a magical creature shop, where Hermione looked for an hour, but still, Harry could only look at Scabbers.

 

“Is everything alright, Harry?” Ron asked him, as the shop-lady looked at his rat doubtfully.

 

“Yeah,” murmured Harry.

 

“An ordinary, common, garden rat like this can’t be expected to live longer than three years or so,” said the witch, looking at Scabbers. At that, suspicion rolled into Harry from Tom like thunder.

 

“Ron…”, he said in a high-strained voice, not his own. “Ron, when did Percy get Scabbers?”

 

Ron blinked at him. “I don’t know. Twelve, thirteen years ago? Why?”

 

Harry closed his eyes. His brow was sweating with the force of Tom’s emotion.

 

“ _Harry,”_ muttered Tom arduously. “ _Peter Pettigrew was an amazing animagus. He could transform into a rat. A rat that has a toe missing.”_

Harry stared at Scabbers, he was very out of it, as a mighty orange beast caused chaos around the shop and left it in Hermione’s arms.

 

“ _Tom,”_ he whispered. “ _What do I do? What does this_ mean _?”_

They were back in the Leaky Cauldron, alone, and Harry did not know how to solve this.

 

 _“I just don’t understand,”_ he whispered to Tom, staring into the now darkening gloom of Diagon Alley from a window. _“Black killed him.”_

Tom was silent for a moment, and Harry traced a shape on the misty glass.

 

_“The Ministry assumed Black killed him. All that was left was a finger.”_

Harry backed away from the window, the shadows making him uneasy. He paced over to a wooden vanity. Confused, green eyes watched him from the mirror.

 

_“But if he’s alive… why hasn’t he said anything? Surely he has family or something?”_

Tom replied instantly this time. “ _Unless he’s hiding something. Or he’s current state of living does. Black didn’t kill Pettigrew.”_

He let Harry finish the thought. “ _Maybe Black didn’t kill anyone.”_

Harry was so disturbed that he missed dinner that evening, a reality that had obviously worried Ron that evening.

 

“You must have been feeling terrible, mate,” Ron said, glancing at Harry. “Missing dinner! The Leaky Cauldron has _great_ food.”

 

Harry smiled softly at his friend, before Mrs Weasley appeared in the doorway. “Are you alright, dear? We missed you at dinner.”

 

He nodded wearily, still smiling. “Yes, Mrs Weasley.”

 

“ _It’s nice that she cares,”_ Tom muttered.

 

Harry almost quirked an eyebrow at that. Could it be, really and truly, that Tom was beginning to like the Weasleys?

 

“ _Not on your dead body.”_

Damn.

 

Mrs Weasley made Harry promise to eat a hearty breakfast the next morning, even though they had to leave early to get to Kings Cross (the Ministry was providing cars for some reason), before bidding him goodnight and ordering Ron to finish packing. Harry made to finish _his_ packing, but was interrupted by his stomach’s ill-natured growling.

 

“ _Tom,”_ he complained. “ _If you hadn’t been so anxious I wouldn't have missed dinner!”_

He tasted something bitter, something flickering with sweetness that Harry knew was Tom’s remorse. “ _Sorry Harry. Maybe go downstairs and see if there’s any leftovers.”_

 

Harry nodded, and was halfway along the passage to the bar, which was now very dark, when he heard a pair of angry voices coming from the parlor. A second later, he recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys'. He hesitated, not wanting them to know he'd heard them arguing, when the sound of his own name made him stop, then move closer to the parlor door.

 

"--makes no sense not to tell him," Mr. Weasley was saying heatedly. "Harry's got a right to know. I've tried to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating Harry like a child. He's thirteen years old and --"

 

"Arthur, the truth would terrify him!" said Mrs. Weasley shrilly. "Do you really want to send Harry back to school with that hanging over him? For heaven's sake, he's happy not knowing!"

 

"I don't want to make him miserable, I want to put him on his guard!" retorted Mr. Weasley. "You know what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off by themselves -- they've ended up in the Forbidden Forest! But Harry mustn't do that this year! When I think what could have happened to him that night he ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn't picked him up, I'm prepared to bet he would have been dead before-"

 

"But he's not dead, he's fine, so what's the point-“

 

"Molly, they say Sirius Black's mad, and maybe he is, but he was clever enough to escape from Azkaban, and that's supposed to be impossible. It's been three weeks, and no one's seen hide nor hair of him, and I don't care what Fudge keeps telling the Daily Prophet, we're no nearer catching Black than inventing self-spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is what Black's after.”

 

"But Harry will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts."

 

"We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can break out of Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts."

 

"But no one's really sure that Black's after Harry-“ There was a thud on wood, and Harry was sure Mr. Weasley had banged his fist on the table.

 

"Molly, how many times do I have to tell you? They didn't report it in the press because Fudge wanted it kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban the night Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Blacks been talking in his sleep for a while now. Always the same words: 'He's at Hogwarts... he's at Hogwarts.' Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead. If you ask me, he thinks murdering Harry will bring You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything the night Harry stopped You- Know-Who, and he's had twelve years alone in Azkaban to brood on that...."

 

There was a silence. Harry and Tom both leaned still closer to the door, desperate to hear more.

 

"Well, Arthur, you must do what you think is right. But you're forgetting Albus Dumbledore. I don't think anything could hurt Harry at Hogwarts while Dumbledore's headmaster. I suppose he knows about all this?"

 

"Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds the Azkaban guards stationing themselves around the entrances to the school grounds-“

 

“ _Azkaban guards,”_ Harry hissed, noticing the words. “ _Dementors at_ Hogwarts?”

 

“ _By Salazar I hope not,”_ Tom murmured back, foreboding swimming in Harry’s bloodstream.

 

"Dumbledore isn't fond of the Azkaban guards," said Mr. Weasley heavily, tearing back Harry’s attention. "Nor am I, if it comes to that... but when you're dealing with a wizard like Black, you sometimes have to join forces with those you'd rather avoid."

 

"If they save Harry then I will never say another word against them,” said Mr. Weasley wearily. "It's late, Molly, we'd better go up...." Harry heard chairs move. As quietly as he could, he hurried down the passage to the bar and out of sight. The parlor door opened, and a few seconds later footsteps told him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were climbing the stairs.

 

He waited for a few more moments, feeling quite numb. Tom too was quite. It was a few minutes before he burrowed into the parlour.

 

“ _There’s no food,”_ he muttered, staring blankly at the empty table.

 

“ _Try a wandless accio,”_ Tom replied, referring to one of Harry’s new favourite household spells. It had saved him a great deal of time when cleaning, if he could just ‘accio’ all the grime.

 

Into the bin, of course.

 

Harry nodded, and did just that, murmuring “Accio leftovers,” under his breath. He was rewarded with a small plate of cold chicken on the wooden table, that he slowly began eating with his fingers, not bothering with cutlery.

 

And then more silence.

 

And then…

 

“ _Do you really think that Black is trying to kill me?”_ he asked Tom.

 

“ _Maybe. If he really murdered Pettigrew, then yes.”_

_“But we don’t know if he_ did _kill Pettigrew,”_ he said.

 

“ _There are ways of finding out.”_

_*_

 

The next morning, Harry still didn’t feel quite calm. They’d piled into the black Ministry cars, and were now on their way to Kings Cross. His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the passing London street, his face was pale with exhaustion.

 

“Come on Harry,” Hermione looked worriedly at him. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

 

“ _She’s not subtle at all, is she?”_ Tom murmured.

 

Harry would have smirked, but his stomach was in knots. “ _Nice try,”_ he replied to Tom, lips almost twitching at the exasperation Tom felt. He turned to Hermione then.

 

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… I’m worried about Sirius Black.” Which was hardly a lie.

 

Ron gave a little squeak that he instantly hid behind a cough. “What? Why are you worrying about _him_ Harry,” the redhead exclaimed.

 

Harry relaxed into his seat, looking away from the window. “You don’t know? He betrayed my parents to Voldemort.” And was potentially innocent. Wonderful.

 

Hermione turned a little pale. “What? How’d you find that out? It didn’t say in the Prophet, did it?”

 

Harry almost laughed at Hermione’s curiosity. You could always trust her. He still felt a little ill though.

 

“No,” he answered softly. “I read it in a book, _Rise and Fall of the Dark.”_

 

Hermione gave a little gasp. “I read that in first year! I must have forgotten.” She looked frankly horrified at the idea. It was enough to make Harry actually laugh, and the tickle in his throat he knew, was Tom laughing back.

 

*

 

 _But he was destined to live out the nightmare of his choice.* He’d_ chosen _this. He’d chosen the greyness, the shadows, the listless glances of light (life), the endless years of infinite pages, empty, unwritten, untouched, alone._

_And so. Here he was. Entombed…_

_No, that was wrong. All locked away as he was, his prison…_

****

_Still. He wondered why the sparks seemed brighter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * refers to allusions to Joseph Conrad 'Heart of Darkness', one of my all time favourite novels. (Can you tell?) Other than HP of course. I know this is in no way proper referencing, but I don't know how to do footnotes in ao3 :( 
> 
> Hullo readers, I hope you enjoyed the beginning to PoA. I always loved this book, so I hope to do it justice :) 
> 
> I hope none of you are angry at me - I got distracted by a fluffy oneshot I'd written a while ago, and decided to edit and post it. For some reason, I'm unaware of (and was unaware of at the time). It may happen every so often. Apologies for that.
> 
> Also, thank you for some of the lovely comments I've been seeing! They're wonderful, really (and truly). 
> 
> With love,  
> Insidious
> 
> PS: PLEASE point out any spelling mistakes that you may see!! Thank you :)


	12. Tea with Professor Lupin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentionings of dementors but no meetings, an ancient runes class, general narration and then the chapter title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you see any spelling mistakes and whatnot, please let me know. It's very helpful :) 
> 
> WARNING: Some dialogue is taken from HP&PoA by J.K Rowling, chapters 5, 7 and 8.

Harry had never been so cold before. The feeling crept up upon him, a terrible iciness that froze his lungs and made his veins thin. And never had he felt this fear before.

 

 _“HARRY!”_ Screaming… A woman’s cry.

 

“ _Don't kill my Harry, please!”_

“ _Foolish girl, step aside.”_

_“Harry!”_ Tom’s voice broke through the icy enthrall. “ _Harry, are you there?”_ There was an edge of panic to Tom’s presence, a cold layer that closely resembled Harry’s own. He opened his eyes. There were lanterns above him, and the floor was shaking. He remembered now, yes, they’d been on the Hogwarts Express, and then that _thing,_ it had come and Harry broke off that thought. Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to him, and above them, he could see Neville and that man, Professor Lupin watching.

 

“ _Harry,”_ Tom murmured, and Harry was enveloped by warmth. It tasted like honey and smelled like cinnamon, nutmeg, boiled apples, his eyes fluttering shut like the sensation of sleep on a winter’s night and-

 

Ron and Hermione heaved him back onto the seat. “Are you okay?” Ron asked nervously.

 

“Yeah,” said Harry automatically, looking around the cabin confusedly. Fog rifled through his mind; it hurt to think. “What happened? Where’s that… that thing? Who screamed?”

 

“No one screamed,” said Ron. His face was pasty white. Harry looked around the bright compartment. Ginny and Neville looked back at him, both very pale.

 

“But I heard screaming.” “ _Didn’t you hear screaming?”_ “I swear I heard screaming.” “ _Did you hear screaming?”_

 

The loud snap of Professor Lupin’s chocolate interrupted Harry. “Here,” he said, handing Harry a large block of chocolate. Harry took hold of the piece and stared at it. He felt like he’d caught the flu. Head weighted, the room swaying. He was suddenly aware of Tom’s own fear; a flutter of panic in his ribcage like a bird was in there, screeching. The taste of bile when there was none. Harry sat down.

 

“I’m alright,” he said out loud. “Please, I’m alright. What was that thing?”

 

“ _You know what they were, Harry,”_ Tom whispered softly.

 

Yes. Now that he thought about it. He did. But Harry didn’t want to know. He wanted to burrow inside the warmth of Tom’s laughter and never leave. He wanted to soak in the sunshine of his friends’ smiles forever, and wanted never for the sun to set. It was still so spitefully cold.

 

But the fluttering still went on, in his chest, in his throat, in his skin. He wanted out of his body so he wouldn’t have to notice it.

 

“ _Dementor…”_ Tom said.

 

And so went the journey to Hogwarts.

 

That night, Harry lay in bed, lifeless. “ _I can’t believe Sirius Black might have had to endure those things whilst being innocent,”_ he murmured to Tom. “ _If he is indeed innocent, that is...”_

 

“ _Terrible,”_ replied Tom. Harry’s heart knocked against his ribs then, one, large stutter, not of him. He dived deep into Tom’s mind (because Tom always hid these things and never admitted to the fear but Harry knew, he did) and that’s when he heard the screaming. Not the lone cries of the woman of before, but the terrible, terrified, pleading screams of many. He listened with horror to them, before he was promptly shoved out.

 

_“No Harry! I don’t want you to hear that.”_

Harry sighed. “ _And I don’t want you to go through it all alone, when you are so afraid.”_ There was a silence. But now he tried to enfold Tom, like he imagined a mother would do. He tried to soak Tom in that sunny warmth, tried to replace any chill with his worry. The mental gasp was enough to make him smile, and he could _feel_ Tom’s fear melt away and he could _feel_ that peace flow around them.

 

“ _Harry…”_ he heard murmured, and a flush of gratitude with it.

 

*

 

“I’m so excited about this class,” Hermione whispered to him as they filed into Ancient Runes. The class was quite small; only a few Ravenclaws and the less notable Slytherins accompanied them. The air was hushed, and the books in Harry’s bag, namely his extensive Rune dictionary, and _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ , seemed extremely heavy.

 

“Harry?” Hermione tugged on his arm. He turned to face her.

 

“Oh sorry. I’m just… a little nervous I guess.”

 

“I heard Professor Babbling is really good,” said Hermione, obviously attempting to encourage him. “A veritable leader in the field. I read about her in-“

 

“ _A History of Ancient Runes Study?”_ Harry interrupted.

 

“Yes! Did you read it?”

 

Their conversation made Harry relax a little as they settled into their seats. The room was just that; a wooden floor, bare walls and an old, rickety desk at the front of the classroom.

 

“ _Why so nervous?”_ Tom asked. Harry wanted to roll his eyes, but feared offending Hermione. Tom _knew_ why he was nervous. Although he’d read the books back to front all summer… he had the absurd fear that he’d fail the subject. For the first time in his entire life (which wasn’t particularly long, but still), Harry wanted to not only succeed, but to excel. He wanted to do well in this subject. He liked it.

 

He communicated just that to Tom.

 

“ _Relax,”_ his friend ordered. “ _You’ll be fine. I know it. You were fine last year.”_

Well yes. Harry _had_ done fine last year. Very well in fact.

 

But this was a new class. A new Professor. He wanted to do even better.

 

Any chatter faded away as Professor Babbling walked in. She was a tallish woman with thick, black hair that had been left to roll down her back. She wore simple grey robes, appeared just short of middle-aged, and possessed piercing eyes that seemed to assess each student as she passed them.

 

Harry glanced at Hermione. She was smiling splendidly.

 

“Good morning,” Professor Babbling said, ignoring the desk at the front, and merely standing in front of it. “The purpose of this class is to give you a solid understanding of the written forms used by our ancestors to create spells, wards, blessings, auras and so forth. Though you should know this, if you have done the assigned summer readings.” She quirked an eyebrow at the class. “Perhaps one of you would like to expand upon the content?”

 

A few students raised their hands. This of course included Hermione, but Harry placed his hand in the air too, face carefully blank.

 

“Mr Zabini?”

 

The Slytherin paused, glancing down for a moment before looking back at the Professor. “The most commonly used runic alphabet is the Elder Futhark, which came to England with the Saxons from Scandinavian countries. Muggles were also familiar with it, until the Middle Ages. It became an excellent device to conceal magic afterwards, as only magical people could understand it.”

 

Harry felt his confidence climbing. He knew this. He _knew_ this.

 

“Mr Potter?”

 

His confidence vanished. For a moment, he felt ice cold.

 

Before…

 

“ _Harry. You know this.”_

He breathed. “Well Professor… The Elder Futhark in particular contains 24 runes, often arranged into three groups of eight runes called ættir. Each ætt corresponds to a certain difficulty of casting. Only experienced witches and wizards could use the third ætt safely, whilst beginners could more freely use the first. The first called upon aspects of daily life, the second upon nature, hence elemental magic. And the third… it called upon mythologies and deities, as well as the Sun.”

 

Professor Babbling smiled.

 

When the class ended, Harry was one of the first to stand. His books felt light. It had been fine. Easy. He felt peaceful. As he walked out the door, he turned back for Hermione. But she wasn’t there.

How odd.

 

*

 

A week into the new school year, and Harry warmed himself in the common room. It was always cold in Hogwarts, just a little. Ron and Hermione were discussing their Divination class, which Harry hadn’t had the misfortune to experience. He’d had his first Arithmancy lesson that day and his mind still buzzed a little from the magical equation he’d seen on the board from the sixth year class. Third year was… slightly easier to say the least. It seemed that having a muggle upbringing, and learning primary school math had helped Harry and Hermione. It was… nice to have the advantage for once (he didn’t include Tom in this, because well… that would be cheating).

 

Harry had almost regretted not choosing Care of Magical Creatures; Hagrid had been heartbroken when he’d found out. And he did seem to be missing out, if what Hermione and Ron were saying was true. He’d already been regaled with a wonderful story of how Malfoy had been forced to fly on a Hippogryph and had fallen off into the Black Lake. Luckily, Hermione (of all people), with a clever Wingardium Leviosa had levitated Malfoy safely back onto land, and he’d been too embarrassed to complain. The story had made Harry laugh like a madman (Like Sirius Black, perhaps). But he definitely did not regret not choosing Divinization. Ron’s trembling face was a testament to the fact.

 

“She says I only have until Halloween to live,” he told Harry, huddling into one of the Common-room sofas. “What should I tell mum and dad?”

 

 _“Honestly,”_ said Hermione, rolling her eyes at Ron’s fear. She sat on the floor in front of the fire, her homework warming her lap. “Trelawney’s a fraud.”

 

“Like Lockhart was?” Ron snapped.

 

Hermione flushed. “You’re not going to die, and I’m dropping.”

_“The muggleborn is wise,”_ said Tom with a hint of laughter in his voice. _“But I do wonder… how on earth did she get to Arithmancy? Divination was at the same time.”_

 

Harry cocked his head to the side, watching Hermione curiously. “ _Maybe we have another mystery.”_

 

Ron was complaining about Hermione dropping the subject however. “Then I’ll be alone!”

 

“No you won’t,” she replied. “You have Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas and you mustn’t forget Lavender Brown.”

 

“Fine,” said Ron sulkily. “At least you’ll be there for Magical Creatures. If I spend one more class learning about Flobberworms-“

 

“No more Hippogryphs?” Harry asked, remembering the hilarious story of Malfoy’s injury.

 

“Unfortunately not,” said Hermione. “They were far more educational.”

 

“And fun,” added Ron.

 

“I think Hagrid’s being careful now; he doesn’t want Malfoy making trouble with the board and all,” Hermione said.

 

“Could you imagine?” Ron moaned. “All the trouble we’d have to go through to get Hagrid out of trouble!”

 

“At least he’s not raising dragons this year,” said Hermione.

 

“The peril of Hogwarts!” Harry said, and they all laughed.

School wasn’t perilous though. If anything, Hogwarts was more peaceful than it had ever been, except of course for the matter of the escaped fugitive. Everyone was obsessed with Sirius Black. And Harry found his own obsession; wondering whether the alleged serial killer was innocent (based on Ron’s rat’s lack of a toe) and his theorizing took up more of his time (and Tom’s) then he expected. But most ravenous for the finite hours that Harry possessed, was Hagrid’s extreme hurt that he wasn’t taking Care of Magical creatures this year. The only thing that amended this was visits, as well as avid praising of his rock cakes, much to Tom’s disgust.

 

“ _I can’t believe he makes you eats those things,”_ Tom had exclaimed upon seeing this. “ _Why, it’s practically child abuse!”_

Harry had rolled his eyes. But in truth, he was glad Tom was starting to relax around Hagrid (even in an insulting sort of manner). When Tom had first met Hagrid, Harry’s friend had become quiet as the grave, and all emotion had disappeared with it. Behind that damn wall again. Tom had stopped cutting off his presence like that (because Harry hated it so much) but Harry had learned to wonder what Tom had against Hagrid.

 

Tom was like that around a few people, Harry realized on thinking of it. Around McGonagall a little, and around…Now this was odd. Tom completely shut down around Moaning Myrtle, the ghost that had haunted the girl’s bathroom on the second floor. The first time there had been a sick rush of fear, before silence, and unlike Hagrid, this didn’t seem to abate with Myrtle. Harry wondered whether Tom had known these people before.

 

_Before._

 

The word had a curious ring to it. It pecked at Harry’s head like an obnoxious owl, attention-seeking, distracting… He couldn’t stop wondering about it.

 

That time _before,_ the time that Tom refused to speak of.

 

That time _before,_ the time that Harry wanted to know of most of all.

 

When Tom had been a _person._ A real, material being with skin and bones and blood.

 

Harry still desperately wanted to help Tom obtain a body. He wanted to know who had been evil enough to break Tom’s very self up into tiny pieces. Why, it was like his soul had been torn apart! And Harry wanted to unite those pieces, though he had been very careful not to let Tom know of this. He did not want to destroy the diary, still hidden safely at the bottom of his trunk, just as he did not want to hurt Tom. On the contrary, Harry knew he’d almost do anything for his friend.

 

Tom had done so much for Harry after all. He’d been with him for over a year now, but Harry knew that the year would have been so much worse without Tom. Ginny would probably be dead too. And his friend had been trapped for so long, and Harry almost burned with sorrow at the memory of that darkness. Just as now Tom was helping Harry, Harry wanted to help Tom.

 

Tom wasn’t being very helpful in that regards.

 

But school, although it was not stressful or dire or potentially fatal, _was_ distracting. There was no way Harry could help Tom this year, even though there was no possessed Diary to steal. Defense Against the Dark Arts had easily become Harry’s favourite class, even winning over the abstract beauty of Ancient Runes, and the almost aesthetic equations that littered the Arithmancy chalkboard. For Professor Lupin was a wonderful teacher, far better than Lockhart (or Voldemort), much to Harry and Tom’s pleasure. But there was something strange about the man too. Tom had first brought it up after his first lesson with the Boggart. The Professor had deliberately prevented Harry from tackling the Boggart yes, but it was what had happened after that concerned Tom. The silvery, white orb that represented the Professor’s fear (what Lavendar had called a crystal ball) was suspicious.

 

Harry didn’t think anything of it. He was more concerned with the strange behavior Professor Lupin showed around _him._ Almost like it hurt to look at him. Harry remembered all his classes with the man. Red caps, naughty little goblin like creatures, and kappas, creeping water dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys. The lessons themselves had been extraordinary, but Professor Lupin’s eyes never paused on Harry’s face, even if he was asking a question. They seemed to skim past him, to look at the wall behind him and the desk in front of him. But never on him.

 

Potions was abhorrent of course; rumour had gone out about Neville’s boggart and Snape seemed to thrive now on deducting points. He could never seem to find a legitimate excuse for taking points off Harry though. Last year’s stunt in Potions had made Harry practically top of the class with Hermione and Malfoy, but because he rarely raised his hands, and Tom kept an eye out for Slytherins hoping to destroy his work, Harry remained safe. Well, safer than Neville anyway. But soon the Quidditch season would be here, and Harry had something else go fill his schedule his still peaceful school life. Oliver Wood had called a meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics.

 

“ _Tactics?”_ complained Tom. “ _This game is pointless, Harry.”_

Harry had never understood Tom’s hatred of his own beloved sport. “ _Just try to enjoy it,”_ he said, as they listened to Olvier’s address. After the wonderful summer (excepting the Dursleys), the thought of creating that glass barrier between them made him feel ill.

 

“We know we’ve got the best ruddy team in the school,” Olvier said, punching a fist into his other hand. “three superb chasers, two unbeatable beaters-“

 

“Stop it Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,” said Fred and George Weasley together, pretending to blush.

 

“And we’ve got a seeker who has never failed to win us a match,” Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a kind of furious pride.

 

“And me,” he added as an afterthought. Tom snorted.

 

Gryffindor had won the Quidditch house cup last year. Harry had won a particularly difficult game versing Malfoy, but Tom had remained adamant that Quidditch was boring, foolish, dangerous and “ _don’t forget conceited. Flying around on silly those broom sticks.”_

“But how could it be both dangerous _and_ boring?” Harry had asked.

 

Tom had been very distracting last year, actually. Although he remained quiet when Harry played Quidditch (that glass wall…) Harry often caught the copper taste of worry from him when flying. This training session however, Harry was anxious to help Tom enjoy it. To Harry, flying was magical, it was freedom, and wonder combined with the wind, and the endless earth beneath him. On a broomstick, Harry could go anywhere and escape anything. Quidditch was an outlet for that magical freedom, an excuse to fly and fly again, to swoop and soar and dive and race. The light and the wind of flying so powerfully destroyed any last remnants of the shadows that played so insidiously at the border of Harry’s consciousness. He was free of the darkness of his humid, little cupboard in flight. Harry wanted Tom to feel the same. To free _him_ from the dark stalker that formed his most terrible memories.

 

Tom must have received some inkling of Harry’s thoughts, because his emotional protest suddenly vanished and so did the ever-present wall. Harry knew then of Tom’s fear. He was transported back to another time on that same Quidditch field, but this time he was no longer Harry Potter. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, an orphan, a mudblood, and Abraxas Malfoy was laughing at him, jeering: “-the mudblood can’t even make his broom stand up!”

 

Tom was ashamed. “Up!” he yelled, full of blistering rage. “Up!” But it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t. He was left standing on the muddy grass, Malfoy and his cronies lifted up into the air, flying, leaving him behind. All alone again.

Harry ignored his team-mates, and flew up to a raincloud drifting in the evening sky. It was cold, and the air pressed wetly against his cheeks. But it was worth it, for the silence. He flew up higher, holding onto Tom with everything he could, going higher and higher into the night sky until the air was thin and he was dizzy from it.

 

“ _Harry,”_ said Tom urgently. “ _You’re too high. Get back, go down.”_

But Harry ignored him. Suddenly he stopped, so that he was the center of the sky, now purple and veined with silver, glimmering stars. They were above the clouds now.

 

“ _Can’t you see it Tom?”_ Harry panted. “ _We’ve left them all behind.”_ He looked up to the trembling lake above him that was the sky. _“We're free.”_

He channeled his utter bliss at the sky and the night and the very act of flying, made it into a cloak that he placed over Tom, enfolding him. And suddenly, Tom was laughing with him. It may as well have been sunrise then, with the way the night rose up with light. A glorious rainbow, all in Harry’s mind.

 

It seemed to him, embraced by night ( _so gloriously bright),_ that he’d never be trapped in darkness again.

 

“ _That would indeed be nice,”_ said Tom softly.

 

*

He returned to the Gryffindor common room that, languid and tired, to find the room buzzing excitedly.

 

"What's happened?" he asked Ron and Hermione, who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the fireside and completing some star charts for Astronomy.

 

"First Hogsmeade weekend," said Ron, pointing at a notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin board. "End of October. Halloween."

 

“Did you manage to get your note signed?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowing. She knew something of Harry’s relatives.

 

Harry grinned, thinking about the note Tom had created for him. It lay folded neatly between his Rune Dictionary and a book on Quidditch History on his bedside table. He nodded. “Yes. Though they didn’t want to do it at all.”

 

 _“Not one lie in that sentence,”_ Tom said. “ _I am proud.”_

“That’s great, mate!” said Ron. “Hogsmeade is brilliant; just ask Fred and George.”

 

“That’s right, Harry,” said Fred, appearing miraculously from nowhere.

 

“Zonko’s Joke Shop is our favourite,” George said, who materialized on the other side of Harry. “They've got Dungbombs -“

 

“- Hiccough Sweets -“ said Fred.

 

“- Frog Spawn Soap -”

 

“- Sugar Quills-“

 

“- and Nose-Biting Teacups!” finished George.

 

“Oh really,” said Hermione, her jaw stiff. “And none of them are on Filch’s list of banned objects?’

 

“The Hogwarts banned list?” the twins said in unison, eyes glittering.

 

“Now who would have thought Hermione Granger-“

 

“of all people!”

 

“-would know of a thing like that?”

 

“Lay off,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “Really, Harry. There’s not enough time in the day to see it all!”

 

Harry nodded, excitement filling him up.

 

“ _I remember Hogsmeade,”_ said Tom, conversationally. “ _I loved the bookshop. They had many old books you can’t get at Flourish and Blotts.”_

_“Really?”_ Harry wondered. “ _But Flourish and Blotts is huge!”_

_“I know,”_ said Tom, a mischievous feeling coming from him. It tasted something like sour sweets. “ _That’s my point.”_

 

At that moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto Hermione’s lap. A large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth.

 

"Does he have to eat that in front of us?" said Ron, scowling.

 

"Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?" said Hermione.

 

Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow eyes fixed insolently on Ron.

 

"Just keep him over there, that's all," said Ron irritably, turning back to his star chart. "I've got Scabbers asleep in my bag."

 

The conversation continued.

 

“I’m just worried about Sirius Black,” said Hermione. “We know he might be after you, Harry. This would be a perfect opportunity for him to act.”

 

Harry quieted. “ _Or a perfect time to contact him.”_

_“Harry…”_ warned Tom. “ _You don’t know he isn’t dangerous. He’s been at Azkaban for twelve years. He may well have turned mad.”_

_“You were in my head for eleven years!”_ Harry said. “ _You’re mostly well-adjusted.”_

_“Why thank you, Harry.”_

“Harry?”

 

“I know,” he said aloud. “But I’m sure there’ll be loads of security! We’ll be fine.”

 

Those were the words running through his head that Halloween as he stared at Professor McGonagall, and his Hogsmeade permission letter in her hands.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr Potter,” she said. “But the Hogwarts Forgery Warding system wouldn’t accept your letter. I assume of course, that you haven’t tampered with it,” she raised a single eyebrow over her spectacles at him, “but you’ll simply have to stay at school until your guardians can send you another letter.”

 

Harry continued to stare at her, mind not at all blank.

 

“ _You said it would work.”_

_“Well obviously the Warding system has become more advanced!”_ Tom defended, his embarrassment (which tasted like overly sweetened coffee) obvious. “ _It’s been a while since I created that spell. Times have changed, I imagine. It’s simply bad luck.”_

_“How old_ are _you?”_ Harry wrinkled his nose. Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, before he realized, quickly apologized and walked away. “ _We’re just lucky she thought it was a malfunction or something. Though that’s obviously not the case.”_

Tom sighed. “ _I imagine she thinks someone tampered with it so you couldn’t leave school. A prank. Sufficient levels of Forgery aren’t reminiscent of a Third Year. It’s not possible that it could have been you.”_

_“Small miracle,”_ Harry said moodily, making his way over to where Ron and Hermione stood, obviously excited.

 

“Coming Harry?” Ron asked.

 

Harry shook his head, shoulders slumping. “Something’s up with my permission note. I’m not allowed.”

 

There were displeased sounds, sighs of empathy, and murmurs of frustration. There was little they could do.

 

"We'll bring you lots of sweets back from Honeydukes," said Hermione, looking desperately sorry for him.

 

"Yeah, loads," said Ron.

 

"Don't worry about me," said Harry, in what he hoped was an offhand voice, "I'll see you at the feast. Have a good time."

 

He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front doors, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn't be going.

 

"Staying here, Potter?" shouted Malfoy, who was standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle. "Scared of passing the dementors?"

 

Harry ignored him and made his solitary way up the marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, and back to Gryffindor Tower.

 

"Password?" said the Fat Lady, jerking out of a doze.

 

"Fortuna Major," said Harry listlessly.

 

He walked into through the entrance, looked up and walked right back out. The room was crowded with the younger Gryffindor, too loud and too much for him at that moment. He tried the library, bumped into an irritated Filch, and decided to try somewhere else. He climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms said, "Harry?"

 

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

 

"What are you doing?" said Lupin, though in a very different voice from Filch. "Where are Ron and Hermione?"

 

"Hogsmeade," said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.

 

“"Ah," said Lupin. He considered Harry for a moment. "Why don't you come in? I've just taken delivery of a grindylow for our next lesson."

 

"A what?" said Harry.  


He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers.

 

"Water demon," said Lupin, surveying the grindylow thoughtfully. "We shouldn't have much difficulty with him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong, but very brittle." The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

 

"Cup of tea?" Lupin said, looking around for his kettle. "I was just thinking of making one."

 

"All right," said Harry awkwardly.

 

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

 

"Sit down," said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. "I've only got teabags, I'm afraid -- but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?"

 

“No,” said Harry, the word lengthened into a sigh. “That would be Ron and Hermione. I don’t do Divination, sir.”

 

“Oh,” said Lupin, seeming to look at Harry for the first time. It was enough that Harry could observe the tired lines on his face, the greying hair, and despite all this, the curious yellow-green eyes. “And which electives did you choose then?”

 

“ _He’s curious,”_ said Tom suddenly, breaking his long silence. “ _He has vested interest in you.”_

_“Vested interest?”_ Harry repeated. Inwardly, he was wondered why Tom couldn’t simply say ‘interest’. “ _What do you mean?”_

“ _Just watch.”_

Lupin was looking expectantly at him, still waiting.

 

“Ancient Runes and Arithmancy,” Harry said.

 

There was a small moment of silence, broken only as the kettle floated upwards, tipped to the side and poured black tea into Harry’s teacup. It did the same for Lupin, before settling itself back onto the desk.

 

“Lily chose those subjects,” said Lupin. “As did I.”

 

Harry felt his entire body stiffen. “You… you knew my mother, sir?”

 

Lupin’s mouth quirked to the side. “I did.”

 

“What was she like?” Curiosity was eating at Harry like some rapid beast, desperate for answers. “What about my father? Were they friends?”

 

Absently, Harry noticed the Professor’s left hand spasm, before he picked up his cup of tea and had a long sip.

 

“She was…” there was a pause, and another small smile. “She was supremely intelligent. Gifted in Charms and Potions in particular. And she was headstrong. And too kind for her own good. ” Lupin took another sip of tea. “Lily refused to have anything to do with James for years.”

 

“ _He was friends with them,”_ said Tom faintly. “ _Look at the way his hands shake as he sips his tea. No wonder he is curious about you.”_

“You look quite a lot like your father,” Lupin said slowly. “But… maybe you’re more like Lily. I had had quite enough of Magical Creatures before third year,” another smile, forceful and unhappy, “and she wanted to avoid James. We were some of the only Gryffindors in the class. James didn’t speak to me for two weeks,” he shook his head, seemingly fond.

 

Harry could barely think for the eagerness thirsting away inside him. So he was surprised at what Tom said next.

 

“ _If this man was friends with your parents… then he knew Peter Pettigrew. And he knew Sirius Black.”_

“ _You think… should I ask?”_

_“Yes.”_

Harry picked up his tea then, and sipped at it, inwardly cringing at the bitterness. He’d left it sitting for too long. He placed it down on the desk, waited for the black liquid to settle before looking back up at the Professor.

 

“Sir…” he was quiet for a moment. “Sir, did you know Sirius Black?”

 

It was all too visible the way Lupin froze, as if his entire being had seized up at the name. Any fond smile vanished, the face turned even paler, the eyes dimmed, lines appeared that hadn’t been there before, carving into the skin like scars.

 

“No,” he said, too softly. “No, I did not.”

 

“ _He’s lying,”_ Tom muttered.

 

“ _He must have been very close to him,”_ said Harry. “ _He was betrayed too.”_

“Now unfortunately we’ll have to put an end to our chat,” said Lupin, standing up, putting the kettle away with a clutter, and finishing his tea with a large gulp. “Professor Snape will be coming and-“

 

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in," called Lupin, ceasing motion for stillness.

 

The door opened, and in came Snape. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes narrowing.

 

"Ah, Severus," said Lupin, smiling. "Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?"

 

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Harry and Lupin.

 

"I was just showing Harry my grindylow," said Lupin, pointing at the tank and clutched at the desk with one hand. His fingers were clenched so hard they were white.

 

"Fascinating," said Snape, without looking at it. "You should drink that directly, Lupin."

 

"Yes, Yes, I will," said Lupin.

 

"I made an entire cauldronful," Snape continued. "If you need more.”

 

"I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus."

 

"Not at all," said Snape, but there was a look in his eye Harry didn't like. He backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.

 

Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin caught the expression, and turned around, face haunted.

 

"Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me," he said stiffly. "I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex."

 

“I see,” said Harry, though he did not. He had the absurd urge to knock the smoking goblet down, and stood up, knowing Lupin wanted him to leave. “Can I… Can I come by again?”

 

Lupin clutched at the goblet, and gulped at it, shuddering. He relaxed then, shoulders drooping as if suddenly exhausted.

 

“Of course you can,” he said, turning back to Harry and smiling faintly.

 

Harry walked out Lupin’s office slowly, his mind abuzz. The Defense teacher had known his parents, had known Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. Had been friends with all of them.

 

Maybe… maybe he would believe Harry about Scabbers, the rat with a missing toe, maybe he could help Harry investigate whether-

 

“ _Perhaps,”_ said Tom. “ _But do not ask him just yet. There is something I would like to make sure of first. So he does not go to Dumbledore.”_

_“What is it?”_ asked Harry, instantly beware. The corridors were beginning to fill up with Hogwarts students back from Hogsmeade. He recognized the sharpness that came with Tom’s suspicion. Not lightning, but like it. Not electricity, but like it. Not smoke either. But like it.

 

“ _You’ll see,”_ was all Tom said. Harry would have asked more, but he’d reached the Gryffindor common room entrance, and had to say the password.  


“Fortuna major,” he murmured thoughtfully, and walked in.

 

He worked on his Arithmancy equations in front of the fireplace. It was slow work. All he could think of was Professor Lupin’s face when he’d mentioned Sirius Black. And the words about his mother. _Intelligent. Headstrong._ Kind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello gorgeous readers! 
> 
> This chapter has been on my mind for 2.5 months. Getting the plot set up is much more difficult than just... going along with the plot. That'll be next chapter :) Anyway I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> I am so sorry for my absence. I've been terribly busy and gotten quite sick during it. I've gone and gotten an anxiety disorder (lovely, I know), which is taking up a lot more time than I'd like.  
> DURING that time, the occasional comment or kudos are a blessing. THANK YOU. You're all wonderful beings that deserve as much real-live fluff as possible. 
> 
> With this in mind... a word about updates. 5500+ word chapters weekly is just impossible for me right now. 
> 
> It will change though. 
> 
> This is not a source of stress, so please don't worry about me hopping up and leaving :)
> 
> Life ceases to be busy early November so then I'll have time again and hopefully, updates will flow like coffee at 6am in the morning. 
> 
> Happy reading.  
> Love Insidious xx


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